Take shelter in my arms (english version)
by LuckyVV
Summary: Takes place in August 1943. Quinn, a young woman living in Paris finds a young Jewish girl in her basement. She decides not to denounce her despite the threat. AU Faberry.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi everyone ! So, here is the first chapter of Take Shelter in my Arms, a story of mine that I am translating for a fellow who wanted to read it. I hope it won't disappoint you.**

 **You have to know that English isn't my first language, I'm not a native speaker so there obviously will be mistakes. Also, a huge thanks to dgronison who helped me and beta'd the chapter (:**

 **I'll let you with the first chapter. Please don't hesitate to tell me your thoughts, I'd like some feedback.**

* * *

The wheels of her green colored bicycle passed along by the market and stores at Rochechouart Boulevard. Feeling the uneven paving stones underneath her brought such a pleasing sensation for her. It was the simplest way to go back up the avenue instead of waiting for the subway for ten minutes then leaving it two stops away. Moreover, she could do some exercising along the way. Climbing the steep streets of the butte Montmartre was becoming easier for Quinn, especially with only a few cars on the road these days.

Turning left, the blonde stopped when she saw two familiar figures in the middle of a discussion near the Maison Collignon at Trois-Frères street. Quinn waved in greeting as the two crossed toward her side of the pavement while she dismounted on her bike.

"Hi Quinn!" the fair young woman called Brittany, exclaimed as she hugged her. She was always smiling and it was nearly impossible not to be contaminated by her cheerfulness which never seemed to drop.

The other person who was an older boy named Sam, moved forward and took Quinn in his arms. "Happy to see you, Quinn. Is everything alright at home?"

All three talked for a moment in the almost deserted street. Even if they see each other a few times a week, it was always wonderful to keep in touch with them. Sam lived in an apartment at the same building where Quinn was staying while Brittany lived a few stops away with her family.

With their schedule catching up with them, the three friends had to bid each other goodbye then parted ways to attend to their own affairs.

Quinn did nothing but roam around with her bike along the precipitous streets surrounding the Sacré-Cœur for the next few minutes, appreciating the fresh air breezing through the alleys and the sun's rays piercing the foliage of the trees.

She didn't have to do anything today because there were no work available requiring her skills and no errands for her to attend to. So, the young woman enjoyed the free time she had by exploring the surroundings of a butte that she knew all too well because she lived there since she was seventeen. She had one thing to do in the evening however. When the clock struck six, she got back on her bicycle to follow a path she knew by heart, then stopped in front of a grocer's shop when she was sure she wasn't being followed. No one ever followed her, but it didn't prevent her from being careful.

Quinn put her bike against the wall which was next to the nearly empty fruit stalls before rushing into the store. She walked past the few products stored up inside until she reached the back of the room. She went down the wooden stairs leading to the basement ; stocked with bags of lentils, wheat and oat, kilos of white sugar, hams, steaks, salt pork, wine bottles and seasonal fruits and vegetables, as well as dozens of other aliments and hygiene products.

The place was slightly dark withonly three bulbs lighting the room up but it looked very well kept. It was a real pantry but only for those who knew where to find it and who knew how to keep quiet.

Between these full shelves was a tall blonde woman like her who was about fifty, wearing a severe but friendly face when she saw that Quinn Fabray entered the room and was waiting for her on one of the stairs.

"There you are, Fabray. I was wondering if you would visit me today." She began with a reproachful look on her face, but her mouth forming a small smile.

"Sorry Sue, but I couldn't not come and see you." Quinn smiled.

The tall woman straightened up a little. "Still, you have to be more careful. You're taking risks by coming here in broad daylight."

"Don't worry, I'm cautious enough."

Sue Sylvester smiled completely this time. "I'm glad to see you, Q."

Sue Sylvester lived in one of those houses near the Opéra Garnier a few blocks away. She was one of those women who had enough connections to live without being disrupted in her business, but she was also discreet to go unnoticed anywhere. The kind of woman who would keep her silence, even if she was tortured.

Quinn was one of her customers, but also a close friend of hers or something close to that term. Sue treated her as a daughter. Because of this she would give her a small share of her goods — in this case a few pounds of pork wrapped up in rags, one kilo of sugar, tea, cheese, two sticks of butter and some bread — for a lower price than she would have normally paid in a shop like this one.

But after all, she had to eat by any means.

Relieved of two thousands francs, Quinn got back on her bike half an hour later, after having concealed her purchases in her backpack and in the bag hanging on the vehicle. She now had to go back home, which was often the most hazardous part of her day. Nobody had to know what transpired behind that shop just a few minutes earlier or how she learned about that place. Being caught coming out of Sue's with her bags full of provisions hard to find during wartime would be signing her own death warrant.

At this time of the day, the streets were still crowded. Most of people wanted to enjoy the last sunrays and the heat in the streets before deserting the alleys of Paris.

Quinn didn't draw attention on herself. It was not surprising at all ; she was a young woman like many others, going back home after a long day's work or a stroll in shadowy parks, and to melt away into the masses was the best way to go unnoticed.

Crossing Pigalle square, the blonde girl noticed some soldiers in uniform near the Clichy Boulevard. The men seemed to be in the middle of a conversation without paying attention to the passersby and there were no roadblock in sight. It was only after she turned into another street, began climbing the butte Montmartre to be sure that no one noticed her tense shoulders along with her quick glances toward the uniforms and her bags which seem to weigh a lot more than it did two minutes ago, that she felt safe enough and released a heavy breath of relief. She was becoming more and more nervous whenever she saw these men, even from a distance.

Quinn only felt sheltered enough as soon as she crossed the doorstep of her apartment. Almost nothing could reach her once she was between these walls.

Tomorrow, she would wake up about eight thirty then take a shower and buy the newspaper. She would listen the news on the radio, the same ones they'd been spreading weeks ago then look for something she could eat. After that she'll have a tea at her neighbors' Mercedes and Sam's place, stay awake to finish writing an article, head to sleep and do the same exact routine the next day — just like how it has been happening for the last four years.

Tomorrow would be another ordinary day in the summer of 1943. A day, like every day of these last four years, controlled by the worst of the monster the Earth had ever known.

* * *

One Thursday at the end of the month when the clock struck eleven that night, the aparment was suddenly immersed in nothingness. The bulb on the ceiling flickered a little as it seemed to fight against the darkness before giving up entirely.

Quinn sighed and dropped her pencil before she leaned back against her chair. Situations like this one happened often during these times, not because of a neighbor complaining about her intensive electricity consumption because she paid her bills, or because of an unhappy officer because someone didn't respect the curfew. There were a plenty of reasons like having wires nibbled by rats, blown fuses, overheating filaments or a button of the circuit breaker being misplaced that caused these problems.

It only gave Quinn trouble whenever a breakdown like this happened at a very late hour. Of course, who would need to work this late in this tiny building of Montmartre ? Nobody, according to her. When she went down in the basement to relaunch the current power, she never crossed a single soul except a few of these little rats — she was now lead to the conclusion that the lack of electricty after ten o'clock must be because of the little rascals.

Like every other time, she headed for the living room with the help of a kerosene lamp she kept for situations like this one. It was out of the question to open the curtains and show the entire town that one of its inhabitants wasn't sleeping yet. The young woman quickly found what she was looking for ; copper wire, a screwdriver, some candle wax and a flashlight with batteries.

"It should be enough." she said quietly.

A minute later, she locked her door and went down to the basement.

The door leading to it was never locked — a matter of safety, according to the Wehrmacht. If safety meant nobody had to come in, that was a failure. After going on a jaunt there dozens of time, Quinn had never been caught by anyone. In fact, the place wasn't very welcoming. Water was leaking at the corner, stagnating until mold would appear. A few containers were stocked at the back of the room, under a small window which didn't let enough light come in to be able to see through. Quinn was used to coming down here and she knew where to put her feet without them being soaked.

There was humidity in the air which made it a bit suffocating, nothing much for the end of August. In the silence that was only broken by the irregular creaking noises and snaps coming from the old plumbing, Quinn brought her screwdriver out to unscrew the metal plate which was protecting the circuits before putting it down against the wall. She began to seek for the reason of the power failure, examining every wire, fuse, switch attentively. There was no noise to disturb her from observation, until her foot came into contact with the metal plate she previously put down.

The sound of the falling object against the hard and cold floor reverberated in the closed space. It wouldn't have been any problem to Quinn if she didn't hear a muffled gasp resonating feebly.

The blonde stiffened upon hearing it and turned right to face the weak light source coming from outside. There was no one. But of course if there was anyone there at all, they must be hiding somewhere. She walked carefully with her flashlight pointed downward, the soles of her shoes alternately touching the floor of the basement and the stagnant puddles.

She stopped a meter away from the containers before calling out to ask : "Ist da jemand ?" in an audible voice, without the sentence sounding imperative or harsh.

No one answered her but as she moved closer to where she thought the culprit was, Quinn could make out a strangled breathing noise. For a minute, nothing happened. Quinn stood up with her flashlight and screwdriver in hand, ready to use it.

"Is someone in there?" she asked after another moment. She didn't know if she had to speak German or French anymore, with all these Germans in every corner of Paris.

This other person may think that Quinn would leave if she didn't receive an answer. They didn't know her. She pointed the torch at the container before her, still moving forward and what she discovered once behind the large box nailed her on the spot.

The cause of the sounds was due to the presence of a woman, not very old — probably the same age as Quinn — tightly closing her eyes and clenching her hands together until her knuckles turned white. She looked terrified. She surely was — because of this basement, who could easily scare people.

A puzzled Quinn kneeled before the intruder, careful not to let her dress trailing on the ground. Unlike what she did earlier, she spoke in a soft, whispered voice.

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

It took time but the young woman relaxed a little then finally opened her eyes and laid a mournful and fearful gaze at Quinn. She seemed to have understood French. She looked so young, however she seemed to have lived a life of eternity. Smiling weakly, Quinn stood up and offered her hand to the stranger.

"You don't look well," she said — God, she was so thin ! "You can come with me to my place to wash your face and have something to eat. I won't hurt you."

The dark-haired girl hesitated while Quinn patiently waited for her to decide. After all, trusting people who would pass their time in morbid basements wasn't the first thing to do. She finally raised a timid and shaky hand toward her then let Quinn pull her up to stand.

She looked sinister and she was deathly pale. Quinn's first thought was that she was homeless, and that that was why she took shelter in a repulsive and uncomfortable basement. Her clothes weren't much better than her complexion ; the sleeves of her coat were tattered, there were holes and tears scattered over her pants. She was visibly shivering — because of the cold, but also because she was scared too. By looking more at her face the blonde could guess her hollow cheeks, her tanned skin under the paleness, her nose which was more prominent than most of the population living in Paris.

Quinn noticed the nearly unstitched yellow star on said woman's coat — making her realize that the stranger was Jewish and was probably hiding.

How should she act in a situation like this ? It was the first time she was faced with such a specific dilemma — a Jewish girl hiding in the building she lived in, who would certainly be noticed at dawn, by a nosy neighbor or even by a soldier.

Her heart sank a little at the idea of a thousand of people hiding and fleeing every day for more than four years because of their religion — because of something they didn't choose, something they had inherited.

Quinn gave a feeble smile to the little brunette — the corner of her mouth uplifting just slightly — before taking the Jewish stranger to her apartment.

* * *

"Tea ?"

The brunette was startled that somebody asked her such a trite question before getting over the shock and nodding in response, then she looked back at the floor again.

In the little kitchen adjoining the living room where she just replaced the fuse, Quinn turned on the gas and put a teapot filled with water on it. She then walked back to where the young woman was who still haven't uttered a word.

 _'How will I handle the circumstance I found myself stuck into?'_ Quinn thought with a sigh. She had never helped a Jew secretly before. She had never denounced one either. She knew people, neighbors, friends who had hidden some under the floor, in a cellar or even at a workplace. But not her. What could she do ? Keep her here, in this apartment ?

Probably. She didn't have a choice.

"Tea's ready. Drink, it's gonna warm you up."

Quinn put a steaming cup in front of the young girl, who muttered a barely audible 'thanks'. Her hand shook when she reached to take the cup. It made the blonde woman smile a little. That was a first step.

She looked harmless and very vulnerable, in her rags and with her dirt-covered skin. Quinn told herself that she would offer the young girl to clean up tomorrow morning, if she will be staying — but of course, the stranger would still be here. She only didn't want to use the shower when it was past midnight, which could wake the neighbors up and bring up suspicions and that was the last thing she wanted to happen.

No other words were said by the young stranger again. Quinn decided that she would let the Jewish girl stay for the night. She offered the brunette to occupy her bed but the latter refused to, choosing to sleep on the couch instead with some blankets even if it was far less comfortable. Quinn made sure that the girl's needs were attended to and made her promise to call the blonde if she ever needed anything. After sending her a grateful smile, the girl fell asleep instantly in a comfort she haven't had the luxury to experience for a very long time.

When she laid down on her bed that night, Quinn tried to think of a solution to the problem which could possibly destroy the balance in her life at the moment. Unfortunately her mind couldn't think of anything because of the pain and worry it brought which tore her heart out, cutting and crushing it into pieces.

She hoped that the night would still bring her answers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's the second chapter. For those who asked, don't worry, I will finish the translation of this fiction. (: Thank you for all your feedback and follows, it really means a lot.**

* * *

The following day was delicate for Quinn and her new lodger. She knew she had many questions to sort out if she wanted to help the brunette hide. But if she only could save one life from the deadly violence in Europe, she will do it.

Quinn persuaded the young girl to take a shower while she rummaged her closet to find clothes less worn than those she wore for months. Some clothes which couldn't distiguish her from the other citizens, clothes without a yellow star stitched on the left side.

To give her garments without this distinctive mark on them would be breaking the law, especially if she intended to walk in the streets. But hiding her here even for a night was also an infringement. The blonde wasn't at all afraid of the so-called law and the consequences the situation may bring, entirely refuting all these new rules which didn't do anything to make her life and the life of other people easier.

Quinn found a light grey dress which seemed to fit the small brunette's size. The blonde told herself that she would ask her name because it would be more convenient the stranger's stay will be prolonged.

A few minutes later, the young Jewish woman came out of the bathroom wearing the dress that Quinn let her borrow and smelling like soap. She seemed more at ease and more rested than a few hours ago when she was still in that humid and filthy basement. Who knew how much time did she stay there before Quinn found her.

It was so unfair — having to hide to survive while millions of people went on with their own lives as if nothing was happening around them while a selected few had the right to kill whenever they wanted to.

The blonde slowly shook her head to spare herself these thoughts that kept running over her head for years. She motioned to the brunette to come and sit at the table in the living room and where butter, a piece of bread, deli were already served. Quinn was aware of the woman's religious practices which could be a hindrance from taking in what was offered to her.

Thankfully, Quinn didn't have to make the woman reconsider her views because she quickly dug into the plate. One can never defy human instinct such as hunger especially if survival comes down to it.

"Do you want something else aside from ham ?"

The blonde asked the stranger when she sat down with her andthought that the Jewish girl would have agreed quickly ; however she only smiled shyly and shook her head while muttering that it was okay.

Quinn wondered if it was the first time the girl was forced to consume pork.

They ate in silence mostly except for the clinking noises provided by the plates and knives as they continued their breakfast. The little brunette was eating slowly, like she was indulging herself from being able to eat something after having nothing for maybe quite some time.

A ton of questions erupted inside Quinn's mind, who didn't know if it was the right time to ask for information from the dark-haired girl or if there will ever be a right time to ask her. Moreover, she surely had to hear questions a million times and she must have been coerced to answer these people to not suffer a more terrible fate than the one given to her. What could the others made her do against her will ? The blonde cleared her throat. After all, if she didn't want to answer her questions Quinn wouldn't force her to do so.

"How long have you been in Paris ?" Quinn softly asked.

The other girl was by no means fazed by the question and she slowly finished her mouthful. She then said, after a few seconds : "I arrived two weeks ago."

Her voice was weak like a whisper but also tender at the same time, as if she felt someone could take her right to speak if it was louder. She must have experienced such terrible things since the beginning of the war.

The blonde went on, "And how long have you been staying at the basement ?"

"Two days."

Quinn nodded then swallowed before asking the last question which she knew could make her or break her.

"Are you going to... tell on me to the Nazis because of... this ?"

She made a vague gesture toward the table and the food. The young Jew shook her head violently that she could have broken her neck and stared at Quinn wide-eyed.

"No ! Of course not," she said in a slightly more confident voice. "I could never do that."

Obviously she couldn't ever do something like that but Quinn was just making sure. The blonde had things that she would rather be kept hidden from other people. This made her smile a little and met those sad-looking brown eyes.

"Okay," Quinn said after a bit.

* * *

Everything changed a bit after eleven in the morning, when a harsh knocking against the front door resonated to the living room. Quinn heard the stranger holding back a gasp and that was what made her react. She mouthed "go in the bathroom", which made the brunette stand up in a hurry and tried to make few noises as possible.

Quinn only opened the door after hearing the key turning in the lock. She wasn't surprised to see who was standing behind the door.

"Guten Morgen, Fräulein." *

His voice was firm and loud enough. It was necessary to get in the army of the Third Reich. Quinn vaguely wondered if the Jewish girl who was hidden in her apartment had heard him and recognized the harsh accent and what it meant. In spite of herself, she felt cold sweat traveling down her back but she quickly regained control of her body. She musn't show him that she was afraid.

"Guten Morgen, Soldat. Was kann ich für Sie tun ?" **

Her quite extensive knowledge of Goethe's language allowed Quinn to easily communicate with the soldiers speaking to herwhich came in handy during those times. She rarely struck up a conversation with them but never failed to have them impressed because it was rare to find a young Parisian girl who can speak German. This one wasn't an exception as he begun to talk to her enthusiastically about his past achievements since his deployment in Paris, proceeding to chatter about suspicions rising among the population about Jews that recently arrived and then would be scattered all over in the city by now.

Quinn pretended to be surprised upon hearing the news, said some excuses and promised him to pay attention and to contact him if she ever saw something — or someone — suspicious.

Her mind however wasn't at all into the conversation because it was solely focused at the girl a few meters away from them. She was surely scared beyond measure. Quinn was too. The soldier didn't seem to sense her anxiety. Could he hear her breathing through the walls ? Or her pulse ? Does the heart of a Jewish woman beat differently than the heart of a Catholic or a Nazi?

Fortunately after long minutes of the soldier rambling about topics she wasn't interested in, he bid her farewell and went out. Quinn waited until she couldn't hear his boots clacking against the stairs anymore to release a relieved sigh before closing the door. She leaned against it for a moment and waited until she get her bearings back before heading to the bathroom, knocking softly at the door as to not scare the girl who must be paralyzed in fear on the other side.

"You can open the door, he's gone."

It took a few seconds before the door opened. The dark-haired girl was still there, sitting on the edge of the bathtub ; her arms were wrapped around her stomach as if to protect herself. Quinn walked closer towards the Jew and carefully put her hand on the girl's shoulder in comfort.

"Are you going to be alright?"

The other girl swallowed while looking down at the floor then nodded. Quinn hoped that things will be fine for now though she couldn't really tell how long it would go on like this.

* * *

The remaining time left for the rest of the afternoon went smoothly. Quinn told the small brunette that she could eat without worrying about having too much (she told her jokingly about having asecret stash hidden somewhere) while she worked on some articles that she received for proofreading work. Even though she felt two questioning eyes on her back, the other girl didn't ask what Quinn was doing and didn't even open her mouth except for eating.

Quinn didn't know if she should have been grateful for that. After all she didn't really know anything about her and vice versa. If she was planning on providing shelter for the Jewish refugee for the next weeks that may even last for months, they would have to talk sooner or later and build trust in each other for this certain deal to work out. The young woman seemed withdrawn most of the time so she might have to do something about that first. Anyway, they would have plenty of time in their hands to get to know each as they continued to be stuck in this place as the war rages on.

When Quinn got up to get some ink that she kept in her room, she suddenly heard some ruckus then a door slamming then weak echo of hurried footsteps at the stairs. It took her only a second to understand what just happened.

She ran back into the living room where the other girl had disappeared as she feared it, bringing along the last piece of bread. She didn't take the time to put on a jacket or some shoes before bursting out of the apartment into the staircase, hoping that she would catch up with her.

"Eh !"

The blonde's calls didn't even deter the other girl from her determination to run away. After hurrying down on three fleet of stairs, Quinn was finally able to arrive at the ground floor then rushed to open the front door in hopesthat she would find the girl among the Parisians before she got too far away to chase. Unfortunately, Quinn just realized that she wasn't able to get the girl's name so she couldn't call her out among the crowd.

"Crap !" Quinn exclaimed. She violently hit the wall with the palm of her hand.

Several passersby looked at her strangely but quickly got back to their own business ; Quinn couldn't care less. If the young girl get caught by soldiers or collaborators, or anyone having bad intentions, she would face a lot of trouble. If anyone out there found out that she was one of the refugees despite not wearing the jacket with the yellow star patched on it, that she ran away from Quinn even if the blonde had been nothing but kind to her for some unclear reason and got herself in an even more dangerous situation — Quinn would feel responsible for putting her there.

She didn't know if she could forgive herself for the death of a human being, especially under these kind of conditions.

When she went back to the apartment, she searched first into the basement, holding on to the faint hope that the Jewish girl will be back to where she found her. She wasn't.

Her nerves were tense and a headache was developed as soon as Quinn collapsed on her couch in the living room. It was nearly eight o'clock but she couldn't find the will to eat anything. The worry which disappeared to her that morning came back in full force.

* * *

Several quick knocks hit her door as the night had already fallen, which got Quinn out of her drowsiness. It was almost ten and she wasn't expecting anyone. When she didn't come to the door, the knocks resumed and she had a feeling that something terrible hashappened.

It could be this German soldier, who would tell her that they had found the young Jew and arrested the brunette, then tell Quinn that she didn't have to worry anymore and that he was glad to help.

No. It wasn't possible. She also didn't know why somebody would knock on her door this late. She just had to get up and open the door to have her doubts confirmed or invalidated but she thought it was the most difficult thing to do.

She walked slowly to the door, hearing familiar hushed conversation on the other side of it. Once she opened it, she found a breathless Sam sporting worried expression on the threshold while supporting a young woman in poor condition on his arm. It was her. The Jewish woman that Quinn had took in and who had fled a few hours ago.

"Quinn," the young boy said quickly, "you have to help her. I found her at the street, I think she cut her foot open on glass."

The blonde immediately let them in and closed the door behind them, making a gesture to let them know that they could go in her room. The man's voice could be heard across the apartment, soothing the brunette who didn't know how to act if she should give in to panic, let fear overtake her or even faint. When Quinn got back in her bedroom, the girl was half lying on the duvet with Sam beside her.

"I came here because I thought you could treat her wound and take her in, at least for a night." he said.

"You were right," the blonde answered with a half smile. "Come and get my first-aid kit in the bathroom, I'm gonna take care of this."

Sam did what he have been told, returning with what was asked of him along with a glass of water. Quinn thanked him and began to disinfect the tools which she took out one by one from the small bag then put them on the wooden desk.

She knew why Sam had come to her and not to a doctor or a nurse with more experience. Quinn went at a medical school for a few years because she had wanted to become a surgeon or a general practitioner and maybe something else. With the sudden outbreak of war and the occupation of France by the Third Reich army, her studies and plans for the future came to a sudden halt.

Another reason why Sam came to her aside from the basic knowledge towards first aid was because he was aware of Quinn's opposition towards the Nazi regime. If there was a person who was either Jewish or seen as a public enemy, she'd most likely not spare them away.

The blonde was currently studying the young woman's bloody left foot as she was now sitting on the bed with her back to the wall.

"It will take some time," Quinn sighed as she stood up after examining the Jewish girl's cut. "It could hurt you a bit. It looks like the cut was deep enough to reach a nerve on your middle toe."

The dark-haired girl seemed surprised, her eyes widening but nodded her consent. Quinn went into the bathroom to wash her hands and took a few deep breaths to get ready for the task waiting for her. When she got back in her bedroom, she told Sam he could leave and thanked him for his help. The other blonde replied that he only did what he could and told Quinn that he would drop by tomorrow to check in on the injured girl.

Quinn sat down in front of the maimed foot that she had to fix. Pieces of glass of different sizes lodged themselves more or less deeply under the flesh, some of them had cut the skin and some blood vessels if the quantity of blood Quinn could see was of any indication. The blonde first took a cotton wool that she soaked in surgical spirit, before applying it on the sole of the foot.

"Breathe deeply," she warned when she took the cotton wool away. "I'm gonna do this quickly."

Having the wounded footdisinfected a second time Quinn began to remove the most visible shards and those that were easy to reach. Fortunately, they were big enough and only a small part was deeply anchored under the epidermis.

She worked in silence for a long time, with only the clinking of glass splinters that she removed being put in a metallic cup breaking the quietness of the room. As she focused on the last bits of glass, the blonde couldn't stop herself from blurting out a statement that she had been aching to say for the past few hours.

"You're completely reckless."

The brunette didn't reply, staying in her speechless state. Quinn went on while trying to keep her emotions in check and the anger that threatened to mingle with her voice.

"Have you ever thought about how utterly dangerous it was to run off like that ?"

The other gulped uneasily, still not meeting the disappointed yet relieved look that Quinn was giving her. She closed her eyes and said in a weak, fragile voice : "You were... you were going to..."

"You can call me Quinn, you know." The blonde replied gently. Quinn smiled a little. The brunette seemed taken aback by her answer.

"You weren't going to sell me out to the Nazis ?"

Quinn gave her a strange look. She resumed her thorough work and didn't speak for the next few minutes.

"I have no liking for these men. If you want my opinion I think most of them are Hitler's hounds," — the two women grimaced at the name —, "nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes you have to coax them a little if you want to be left alone for a bit."

Removing the last shard of glass embedded under the flesh, Quinn sighed, leaned back against her chair and looked at the brunette. "I'm sorry if you thought that I was going to expose you. It wasn't my intention."

She sprayed some antiseptic on a cotton wool to clean the wounds. The blood stopped flowing, which allowed her to apply band-aids on the deepest cuts.

"There you are," Quinn said. "It will probably hurt while walking for the next few days but it will get better as time goes on."

"I can still walk ?" the other girl said in an uncertain tone of voice.

"Of course. You might have lost the sense of feeling on your middle toe though which can affect your balance for a little while. You'll eventually get used to it somehow and everything's all good on that side." she smiled.

The brunette gave her a genuine smile that made Quinn think was a rarity for the girl after all the hardships she's been through for the last few months. It only lasted a second though before she frowned and her face clouded over.

"What's wrong ?"

"Earlier I... I took your," — she cleared her throat — "I stole your bread. But I lost it, I am so sorry, I didn't want to..."

Quinn smiled and thought that this young woman was indescribably adorable when she let her walls down and continued to ramble because was feeling nervous. "Can I ask for your name ?"

Caught off guard, the small brunette fell silent but eventually answered : "Rachel."

"It doesn't matter, Rachel." The blonde continued. "It was only bread."

The girl named Rachel looked pensive for a moment before nodding her head in relief, allowing Quinn to provide her shelter for two consecutive nights.

* * *

 _Believe me, I speak to you with full knowledge of the facts and tell you that nothing is lost for France. The same means that overcame us can bring us to a day of victory._

 _._

 _Croyez-moi, moi qui vous parle en connaissance de cause et vous dis que rien n'est perdu pour la France. Les mêmes moyens qui nous ont vaincus peuvent faire venir un jour la victoire._

 _—_ _Général de Gaulle._

.

* "Good morning, Miss."

** "Good morning, soldier. What can I do for you ?"


	3. Chapter 3

**I can't say how sorry I am for not posting this sooner, but my beta is busy can't beta anymore and I seem to have a hard time finding another. I still hope this chapter will be comprehensible since it's not proofread, don't hesitate to tell me if there are huge mistakes. Also, if someone is willing to beta for me (the next chapter is already written), just send me a message.**

* * *

Quinn chose to sleep on the couch without thinking twice. When the young girl — whom she now knew the name, Rachel — told her that she could give her back her bed and take the merely comfortable sofa, Quinn immediately silenced her. "Doctor's orders." she said jokingly. Rachel smiled shyly, one of those rare but sincere smiles which could restore hope and joy.

However, it wasn't hope that filled Quinn inside. She spent the majority of the night tossing and turning in her dreamless sleep, thinking about the events that happened in her life for the last few days.

Above all, she was scared.

It wasn't the same fear than the one she constantly felt since the end of the 1930's ; the trepidation she felt every time she saw a military uniform or when she heard the sounds of clearly recognizable boots, or when she looked around at every street corner with her arms loaded of supplies that she illegally bought.

Only this time, discovering and letting a Jew into her home had instilled a different kind of worry for the blonde. A woman who is part of a certain group of minority wronged because they didn't meet one man's ideals and perspective.

They weren't given the right to live anonymously, nor the right to practice the profession they wanted to pursue or the chance to have any type of work at all. The right to live their own lives and mingle with the rest of the population was taken away from them. They weren't even given acknowledgement as human beings like the handicapped, gypsies, homosexuals, communists, and other many more. People like Quinn, who choose to help the discriminated, were also becoming undesirable to this insane government.

The horror brought by the idea of being found out by a soldier or a dubious neighbor about her hiding an 'enemy' of the government kept her up. If that ever happened, the Jewish girl will either be executed on the spot or sent to one of those camps in the East where she only heard nothing but possible horrendous things. No one really lived to tell how the said camps were run.

As for Quinn, she'll be relentlessly questioned for days. She will be tortured until forced to give out the names of her non-existent accomplices, admit her anarchism, anti-nazism and anti-hitlerism. She will be sentenced for decapitation, along with these said 'accomplices' to show the people what was done to those seen as opponents of the regime or who dared to provide assistance to Jews.

It reminded Quinn of the _Chess Story_ by Stefan Zweig, along with the story of Mr. B ; the isolation and interrogations he had to bear — and of course it was only fiction, but what story didn't draw its inspiration from reality?

Perhaps she would become a martyr or become a known figure like Sophie Scholl and the Resistance fighters from the White Rose. All these thoughts were unbearable for Quinn, yet it only reminded her of why she wanted to provide a safe place for the young woman.

Precisely, because she was Jewish. Also because she was currently in the Occupation zone, and not many people would risk their lives for another.

Quinn wanted to. No death should be fair or preferable to another, and wasn't that what she was taught all her life, helping others and loving her neighbors ?

* * *

Rachel had slept in Quinn's bed. The latter forced her in some way, even though she wasn't exactly in a position to argue with a foot in poor condition and a thin layer of guilt sticking to her skin.

She was wrong to run away but she hadn't took the time to think about what to do then. Perhaps she was regretting her previous actions, because the blonde seemed really sincere when she offered her a roof and a warm place where she could eat, wash, sleep, as well as clothes, all of this without asking for anything in return — no rent to pay and no food expenses.

Rachel would never have thought she could discover so much kindness in only one person.

The next morning, Rachel woke up and walked carefully not to bruise her injured foot even further, and upon entering the living room found her hostess half lying against the armrest of the couch, glasses on her nose and a book between her hands.

"Hello," Rachel said timidly.

Quinn looked up at her and gave her a friendly smile before going back to her book.

The blackout curtains were opened, letting the light of the summer dawn go through the thin white ones. They stayed still for a few minutes, the blonde focused on the ink and the yellowed pages while the dark-haired girl was leaning against the doorframe and enjoyed the feeling of safety that the foyer gave off. Finally Quinn put the volume down on the coffee table and stretched, her body getting stiff after being in the same position during such a long time.

"How are you feeling ?" They were Quinn's first words of the day ; strangely it didn't surprise Rachel.

"Quite good, better than yesterday," she answered. "It's a little painful every step, but it will be alright, I think."

Quinn nodded. "If this gets too unbearable, just tell me and I'll give you some aspirin. "

The brunette smiled. It felt good to know that the person who was putting her up cared about her health and wasn't entirely uninterested.

More talkative than the day before — after all, this woman saved her, so she shouldn't see her as an enemy, right ? —, Rachel walked to her and tried not to put her foot on the floor too much, then sat down beside her on the sofa.

"What were you reading ?"

Quinn smiled, feeling a light satisfaction in the fact that her lodger trusted her enough to ask her such a trite question. She took the book which was on the small wooden table and opened it at the very first pages.

"One's-Self I sing, a simple, separate person;  
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word en-Masse.  
Of physiology from top to toe, I sing;  
Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the Muse  
I say the Form complete is worthier far;  
The Female equally with the Male I sing.  
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,  
Cheerful for freest action form'd, under the laws divine,  
The Modern Man I sing."

Silence fell on them for a moment while the words written themselves, indelible, in their minds, then Quinn asked : "Do you know these lines ?"

"I am afraid not." Rachel said almost timidly.

"They are from Walt Whitman", Quinn answered without losing her faint smile. "He was an American poet. His collection was forbidden for years before people were able to read it. "

She stopped for a moment, then she smirked and leaned toward the small brunette.

"In my opinion, he has been censored by men who were jealous because they couldn't write as beautifully as he could."

"Oh."

They fell quiet, then Quinn burst into laughter, her childlike laugh reverberating inside the apartment and encouraging Rachel to join her and share her joy, even if it only lasted for a minute, a single moment in a life.

For an anarchist and a Jew who were risking death at every false move, the day started rather well.

* * *

The first troubles of this singular collocation came without delay. Firstly, Rachel had to wear clothes that were in good condition and fit her size, and that was where the difficulty laid. The two women agreed on the fact that stitching a yellow star on her future clothes was out of the question. They couldn't go to a tailor or to a dressing store — Quinn just didn't want to take the risk that somebody will recognize the brunette, and she didn't want anyone to know that she hosted someone.

It was for these reasons that just before the night came, and after Rachel promised her not to open the door to no one and under no circumstances, Quinn left and went in the direction of the Opéra Garnier. She told her that she would be back in less than a hour.

Even though she was a bit afraid to be left alone in the apartment of a woman who was almost a stranger, the only thing the young girl could do was agree. After all, she had not the right to contest the blonde's decisions since she was housing her — and she feared that if one day she contradicted her, Quinn would decide to send her back into the streets, or worse, give her to the Germans. It was inconceivable.

Quinn went to "take care of some business" a little before nine o'clock in the evening. Unable to sleep when it was this early — also because she was worried about a thousand things — Rachel decided that looking around the apartment was a safe option.

The bigger room was the living room, which was also used as a dining room, and a tiny kitchen was located next to it. The bathroom seemed brand new, in spite of the building's age, the paint peeling in places, the windows that were hard to open and to close.

She was done in no time. There was only another room, Quinn's bedroom. She probably shouldn't go there without the blonde's permission, but Rachel had slept in this room, and it was most likely to be the case for the next days of her recovery, as Quinn told her ; so she felt that what she was doing wasn't a violation of her privacy.

She hadn't paid attention to her surroundings before, but the first things that could be seen upon entering the room were the shelves, crammed with books. Some of them seemed old and precious, even if their covers were dusty, while others appeared as if they just came out of the printing press. Rachel reverently ran her finger along the bookbindings, feeling the roughness of the leather, the paper and the fabric.

Quinn also owned — it seemed to be her only hobby beside reading — a radio set and a phonograph, set in a corner in the living room, beside which was a stack of records of all kinds. Rachel took the first she could lay her hands on — a vinyl disc by Billie Holiday and another by Joséphine Baker.

She smiled, moved to have right before her eyes what had been, and still was her greatest passion.

* * *

During this short period of time, Quinn arrived safe and sound at Sue's, and she was explaining to her with many details the purpose of her visit. She brought with her — without Rachel noticing — the moth-eaten coat the brunette was wearing when she found her in the basement. Sue was examining it thoroughly, then a frown appeared on her face.

"If this rag belongs to her," she said without a trace of surprise, "you can be sure that she travelled at least a quarter of the Europe with it."

"Can't you tell me more about it ?"

Quinn had a specific purpose in mind when she brought her a garment that Rachel owned : she wanted to find something, a piece of paper or anything else, that could help her establishing precisely the identity of the young Jew.

She didn't doubt her honesty, but it would simply be easier to counterfeit the document. Building something from scratch and create false identity papers looking authentic was nearly impossible in this case.

"There's nothing, Q, not even a wallet. I cannot say this is a wonder."

Quinn sighed, then she dropped to the ground, her back resting against the wall. "So you can't do anything for her ?" she said with a disheartened voice.

"I don't know," Sue replied while slowly shaking her head. "I can say a few words to some officer or ambassador I know, I can tell them that a young woman has to be immediately repatriated in Portugal, in Ireland, or even if the United States. But if I only give them a name and no proof of her identity, you know what they answer will be."

"I know. I'm sorry. I don't want you to take unnecessary risk just because of that."

Sue smiled a little and joined Quinn in her uncomfortable position. She put her arm around her shoulders to press Quinn against her a moment, like she often did in the past.

"That is a noble thing that you want to do, Quinn Fabray, and you should believe in her freedom. I'd like to be as positive as you are."

Quinn chuckled bitterly. "I want her to go so she can have a chance to survive. If she stays here, she has every chance to get caught."

"You see, that is what I like about you."

"What is it ?"

"You didn't say that you have every chance to get caught. You put her first, a Jewish woman that you've only met two days ago, and you care more about her fate than yours. Your excessive selflessness will be your downfall, Fabray." Sue added mockingly.

Quinn actually smiled this time, while leaning a bit more against Sue's shoulder. The comfort that the older woman was giving her was always most welcome.

"I will see what I can do," Sue said after a beat. "It is more difficult to bring Jewish people across the borders because some of them are physically recognizable." Then she added : "This Rachel, does she look like a Jew ?"

"I don't know," Quinn answered with a frown. "Do I look like an orphan ?"

The taller blonde kept silent for a long time, then she shook her head and kissed Quinn's temple.

"Don't think too much, you will get a sprain. You should go home, it's getting dark."

The young woman nodded and stood up, ready to leave the den of Madame Sylvester.

"I'll drop by next week to get the clothes that you have found," she said.

"Oh, Quinn ? Take this with you, alright ?"

Sue sneaked behind a shelf and came back with something in her hands. She gave her a piece of bread of about half a kilo, but Quinn couldn't understand the meaning of such a gesture. Sue gave her the answer, a mysterious air coloring her features.

"Tell your new roommate that it is from a friend. Take care of yourself."

Quinn couldn't say if this last advice was directed to her or to the young brunette, but she nonetheless smiled at Sue, gratefulness clearly written on her face.

When she got home and told Rachel exactly what Sue had said, the small girl had tears in her eyes, and nothing could express better the gratitude she felt than when she laid her eyes upon the bread.

* * *

Rachel's foot was healing, thanks to ointments and daily care provided by the blonde. The latter waited for the scars to be less painful and for the brunette to be able to walk properly before she decided to introduce her to her neighbors living one floor below, who also were two close friends of her.

Rachel was skeptical at first, but Quinn explained that she had things to retrieve from them, and this time she didn't want to take the risk and leave her alone for a few hours.

This brought Rachel to ask her one of the questions that she wanted to ask for days.

"Why are you helping me ? You have no requirement, you could throw me out on the street in the blink of an eye."

The taller woman looked at her for a moment from her spot on her bed (which was the brunette's bed these days), then she took the pendant hanging around her neck between her thumb and forefinger and showed it to her.

"See this cross ? Christian charity. So I must help you." she replied mischievously.

"This is not a reason."

Rachel didn't understand, and Quinn began to feel a form of sympathy for her roommate who now dared talk to her without fear, who nearly dared argue with her.

The blonde smiled. "You're clever. It is rare nowadays."

Rachel frowned, then relaxed a little despite the amused look Quinn was giving her and the answer that she didn't obtain.

* * *

A little before three in the afternoon, they went downstairs and stopped at the second floor. They went at Rachel's pace, carefully and slowly. Quinn knocked at a door — it was the same as hers — five knocks in a singular pattern. The dark-haired girl assumed that it was some kind of code they were using between them, because a second later a smiling woman opened the door.

"Quinn !" she exclaimed before giving the blonde a powerful hug.

"You look good, sweetheart." the stranger continued once she freed herself from this entanglement of arms, then she kissed Quinn's cheeks. She seemed as pleased to see her, only less expressive. Then the young black woman, who probably was a bit more aged than Quinn, remarked the presence of the person who was with her neighbor. Still smiling and showing her white teeth, she turned to her.

"Hello, young girl. You are living with Quinn, right ?"

"That's right," the brunette echoed shyly. "My name's Rachel."

"Glad to meet you, Rachel. Call me Mercedes." she replied before giving her a hug, too.

"I hope that Quinn treats you good." Before Rachel could answer, Mercedes went on : "My God, look at you, you're as thin as a toothpick ! Quinn only gives you the leftovers, doesn't she ? She's a real carnivore."

It made Quinn laugh, then Rachel followed, then the three of them soon had to sit down because their were bent over with laughter.

Mercedes made them come into the apartment, who was a replica of Quinn's, then the owner led them in the living room where she brought three cups of tea and one cup of coffee. A few minutes later, a figure that looked familiar to Rachel came out of the kitchen and emerged into the room.

"Quinn ! I'm glad to see you !"

The young man looked just like an exact copy of Mercedes, perhaps a bit less talkative, but his cheerfulness was as contagious as hers. Then he saw Rachel, looked at her for a second and smiled softly, as if he thought that she couldn't bear to see a grin that was too dazzling, or as if the present times forbade such things.

"Do you remember me ?" he said to her.

The brunette nodded and quickly added : "Thank you for last time. I don't know how I would have managed without you."

The blond guy brush her reply aside, as if it was a habit to save Jews who had cut open their feet on glass.

"Don't thank me. Is your feet healing ? I'm Sam by the way, Quinn's neighbor."

"My name's Rachel. I'm good, I am almost as good as new."

"I'm glad."

He really seemed to be, and Mercedes too. Quinn only smiled.

The four neighbors spent the remainder of the afternoon together, talking about light topics and staying until dinner. They shared a pot-au-feu and a cheese platter and a friendly time as Rachel didn't get to have for so many years. These three strangers had saved her and accepted her without asking for anything in return, and for the first time in a long time she felt at ease. Nobody said a thing about her being Jewish.

Before leaving the warm household, Sam hugged her for a moment and kissed both her cheeks, then Mercedes told her that her door was always open, at any hour of the day and the night.

Rachel felt more than lucky to have two places to go while some people had none.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to the amazing beta that is Hazel006, I am able to deliver this chapter quicker. I hope you're still enjoying the story !**

* * *

Rachel and Quinn left their neighbors at ten o'clock. It was only when they were back into Quinn's apartment — or was it their apartment ? — that the brunette saw the craft envelope that the blonde carried under her arm, and she remembered then that Quinn had said she had documents to get from Sam. Even if she was more intrigued than before, she didn't say a thing. It wasn't her business.

That night, Quinn leafed through the papers that were into the envelope to know what it was about — some newspaper clippings, and shorthand and handwritten pages. She barely looked at them, considering that a complete and thorough reading could take a day or two. She was especially eager to go to bed to make up for lost sleep.

Rachel seemed already asleep. Everything was quiet, except for the soft whirring sound coming from the fridge and the floor creaking under her feet.

Quinn undressed and put on her pajamas before curling up under the blanket on the couch. September seemed more lenient than the year before, but also it was dryer. Sleep came quickly, but she was abruptly pulled out of it by a sharp cry ringing through the darkness. She only needed one second to find out that the frightened gasps she could hear were coming from her own bedroom. The one where Rachel was staying.

Quinn stood up in a flash, she lit her kerosene lamp and rushed into the room, even though she feared what she could find, or who she could find there.

Rachel was here — alone, thank God — struggling in her sheets, gasping and muttering things that the blonde couldn't understand. Sweat was dripping from her forehead, her skin was pale, her knuckles were even whiter. The young Parisian kneeled beside her, put her lamp down then she very softly reached out and put her hand on her forehead, and she smoothed down her dark hair with a measured, careful gesture.

"Rachel, it's me," she whispered as if not to scare her. "It's Quinn. Wake up, everything's alright. You are alright. You are safe."

The brunette wrestled against her invisible and intangible enemy for long, interminable instants ; a sob passed through her lips, then she finally seemed to notice the presence of Quinn and the absence of her nocturnal assailants, and she recognized the place she was in. She opened her round, watery eyes and looked at Quinn, who was still murmuring soothing words in her ear while keeping a hold on her so she could finally stop wriggling.

"Everything is okay," she said again. "Breathe deeply. Exhale. Take deep breaths and it will be alright."

Rachel did as she was told. A minute later her ragged breath was finally calmer, and the images which had attacked her earlier finally faded away.

She was okay. She was safe. That was the most important.

Then she looked at Quinn, who hadn't moved a bit.

"Get up," the blonde said when she saw that the young girl wasn't panicking anymore. "I'm going make you some tea, it will help you go back to sleep."

Rachel wasn't in a position where she could turn down the offer — anyway, she wasn't sure she wanted to refuse.

* * *

"Do you want to talk about it ?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were still in the light of Quinn's lamp, and the two women sat around the living room table, with a steaming, warm and comforting cup of tea between their hands.

The dark-haired girl sighed. "I don't know." Her voice was a bit husky because of the few tears she had shed.

"We have all night," Quinn said, patient as usual. "I can wait as long as necessary, until you know where to begin, but I know that you can't keep it all to yourself."

She could confide in her, Rachel felt it. Quinn couldn't change the past anyway, but if, maybe, she freed her body from this burden which was way too heavy on her frail shoulders, then she would feel better.

But how could she start ? How does one tell the worst moments of their history, her most violent nightmares, when one had undergone it with the full force of reality ?

The blonde was still expecting an answer while slowly drinking her beverage. Eventually Rachel looked down at her knees. "Could we talk about it tomorrow ?" she said quietly. "It's kind of a long story. I don't know if I have the strength to do it right now."

Quinn smiled, understanding as always. "Of course. I understand, you must be exhausted. Go get some rest."

She then put her hand on the smaller girl's back, giving her some physical comfort in which she needed at the moment.

Quinn barely slept this night, she would regularly get up to take a look into her bedroom to check that the brunette was peacefully sleeping. It was frustrating and sad to think that she couldn't do anything for her at the present time, she couldn't erase her memories, whatever they were, no way. Never.

* * *

Rachel didn't wake up before eleven, and came out of the bathroom looking more rested than a few hours ago. Quinn was already up, sitting near what could pass for a real feast, given their living conditions. Aside from the formalities, Quinn didn't say a word to the brunette, she didn't pressure her or sit her down to make her tell what had happened to her and what had traumatized her over a cup of tea, as if they were talking about the weather.

No. It was much more difficult than that, and they both knew it.

After they ate — Quinn forced the brunette a little, or Mercedes would be on her back if she thought that Rachel wasn't eating enough — they heard the bells ringing twelve times in the distance, and the two women settled on the couch.

Rachel was a bit nervous, thinking about what she was about to divulge, wriggling her hands until her knuckles turned white. Upon seeing it, the blonde put on of her hands on this contortion of muscles and bones ; the contact startled Rachel a little, who then relaxed when she looked around her and could only see Quinn, her apartment, her heartwarming touch and her calm eyes which told her to trust the blonde.

The small Jew had to know that she was in good hands, Quinn thought. That she wasn't going to betray her or throw her out, regardless of the circumstances. That was normal, and even common to be scared in wartime, when horror was everywhere, but she would do anything she could to put Rachel more at ease.

The brunette took some deep breaths, turned lightly toward Quinn before she began her story.

"I guess that's the moment to tell you where I come from. You didn't ask me anything, and I am immensely grateful, but now I feel like I owe you this."

Quinn nodded, a light smile tugging at her lips, then squeezed Rachel's hands to prompt her to go on.

"As you already know, my name is Rachel. Rachel Sarfati. I am Jewish, like my father Hiram. I lived with my family in Austria, even if the three of us are French. My dad— my parents took over the farm of my grandparents when they died," she explained to a focused Quinn. "I really liked it there, just the three of us living in our house lost between fields and mountains... It was a tranquil paradise."

Her smile weakened and a shadow crossed her features while she remembered all the memories she had gathered and all the moments anchored in her mind. She took a deep breath before continuing, on a less cheery tone.

"In 1938 Germany invaded Austria. Like everyone, we had heard about the new laws that Hitler had put in place, the Nuremberg laws, and we thought that it would stop there. Who could have thought that his goal was to invade and exterminate three quarters of Europe ? Well, we were still living in our Austrian countryside, because we couldn't afford to leave and rebuild our life somewhere else. Anyway I suspected that the borders were already guarded by then, but we could have tried to flee by the mountains, toward Switzerland. Then, perhaps everything would have been different for us."

"One day, men in uniforms came at our house without warning, and told us to follow them. They led us to the village square, where all the other Jews had been gathered, then they told us about our new status. They made us sew a yellow star into our clothes, and they said that we were forbidden to exercise the profession of doctor or lawyer. We thought that it stopped there and that we could go on in our lives as we did before. Yet, soon we heard about anti-Semitic aggressions in the nearby towns, then in our village. We've never seen that before. Yet it was becoming more frequent each day. So we decided to leave, for good."

"It was at the beginning of the 1940's, I think. The Gestapo was everywhere. But I suppose there should have been even more soldiers and police officers in the big cities. Anyway, one night, my parents and I left, carrying with us as little as possible, as much as necessary — mostly clothes and food —, as well as all of our savings. We travelled for a few miles, walking relentlessly toward Switzerland. Except..." Rachel's voice faltered.

"What ?" Quinn whispered.

Rachel sniffled and wiped her teary eyes.

"We were hiding in deserted houses, or sometimes in small villages," she went on, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Some inhabitants gave us something to eat, some of them offered us to spend a night or two in their houses. But one night, we heard men who were running, as if they were chasing someone. Actually, they were chasing us. Perhaps a villager had betrayed us, or maybe not, but the only thing that was certain was that they were looking for us. This was at this moment that my parents decided that we had to split. Each one of us would leave in a different direction to lose them so we could have a chance at surviving. I think that it was the most difficult decision we've ever made. I wanted to stay with them of course, but it was impossible. They wanted to give me a chance to make it out alive."

The girl wiped a lone tear that had run down her cheek. She only resumed her story after long minutes, so that her breathing was less strained.

"What happened next isn't that interesting. I continued to walk in the mountains, toward the Alps. I had arrived at the Italian border without knowing where I was going. Somebody managed to take me across the border. But over there, things got worse too. Fascists didn't want Jews in their country either and I had to run away, again. It was probably at that time that I lost my identity papers. I arrived illegally in France, hidden in a freight car, and I wasn't discovered until we were in Lyon."

"The rest is easy to guess," Rachel said sadly. "Free zone or occupied zone, it is more or less the same thing. I went where I could go. I was hiding in the towns — sometimes the locals were helping me, without asking for anything — until I was spotted or denounced as a clandestine Jew on French territory ; I had to leave the place as soon as possible and I went where my steps were leading me. It was exhausting to always be on the roads, to sleep helter-skelter, to not be able to eat for days, to not have a single minute break. I got lucky, I arrived in Paris without being killed off."

Quinn nodded slowly. "Did you..." She swallowed hard, thinking of that endless journey Rachel had to go through to get to a place which wasn't even entirely safe. "Did you hear from your parents since you last seen each other ?"

"No, not since I left Austria," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I'd rather not think about what could have happened to them. Maybe one day we'll find each other again and we'll live in our house near the mountains, as before, and everything would be alright."

She smiled weakly at Quinn, whose look was remote, lost in terrible thoughts of death, flight and never-ending manhunt. The brunette had endured so much pain, yet she was here, she was facing her, and she was smiling, and life goes on, for her as well as for millions of other people.

Quinn took care of her guest even more after these painful revelations. It was perhaps selfish to want Rachel to feel at ease and comfortable, to be warmly dressed and properly fed. Furthermore, Quinn didn't want her to face yet again the monstrosities that were taking place everywhere, every day around them.

If Sue couldn't send Rachel away, to a safe place, then she would keep her with her.

A question came suddenly to her mind. "Rachel... you went through a lot, but why did you come into France ? Why didn't you try to go abroad, in a free country, or even take the ferry to leave the continent ?"

"The answer is really simple, actually." she answered while smiling bashfully. The brunette leaned back comfortably on the couch.

"I don't know any foreign language, except Hebrew. You can imagine how hard it was when I tried to make myself understand when I went through Austria, then Italia. Fortunately, Italian isn't very remote from French, so it wasn't that difficult to be understood there. Then I landed in the Aosta Valley region, which is francophone. In fact, I didn't really think through, I was just travelling with people who weren't afraid to bring a young Jewish girl in their bags."

Quinn understood. To flee was never safe, but it was better to seize the opportunities rather than to be deprived of freedom.

* * *

The weeks went by, and Quinn brought home more and more clothes. At the beginning of October, Rachel had enough skirts, dresses, shirts, underwear and stockings which occupied a considerable place inside the blonde's closet, and she could now change regularly and not keep the same outfit for months anymore.

The taller girl had found these garments at Sue's, who got them from who knows where, but also two or three of her acquaintances had given her some of their clothes which were too small or weren't fitting anymore, all without any regret or questioning her.

Rachel didn't go out of the apartment, only to go to the one below on rare occasions ; the reasons why she wanted to stay cloistered were apparent, but it didn't stop Quinn from asking her, on a day when the sun was warming and lighting every corner of the city.

"It's obvious, Quinn," she replied with an ounce of bitterness in her voice. "Somebody could ask to see my papers, or even know that I'm Jewish only by looking at me."

"And would it be wrong ?" the blonde said, a little unsure. "It's only so you can get fresh air and stretch your legs, and there's nobody outside at this time of the day."

"Quinn..." Rachel sighed. She knew what Quinn was trying to do, and she appreciated her efforts, but it was much too risky. She had fought for her safety and she wasn't ready to give it back that easily.

"You know that it's impossible," Rachel said more softly. "If there's a police control, I'm screwed. If one says that I'm Jewish and sees that I don't wear a yellow star, I'm screwed. Let's not tempt fate."

"You don't want to wear a yellow star ?"

"That is out of the question. I don't want to be relegated to a religion. We can't judge a man on whether he believes in this or that. I will wear a yellow star on which 'Jew' will be written the day when the Nazis will have a uniform on which will be written 'Murderer'."

It made the blonde laugh bitterly, who quickly realized the idiocy of her remarks. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think of that when I offered you to go outside. I just want you to see Paris."

The dark-haired smiled, unoffended, then sat down next to Quinn to squeeze her hand in hers.

"I know." she said softly. "Thank you for thinking about me. I've never met such a considerate jailer before."

Quinn laughed softly, genuinely, and the discomfort surrounding them disappeared right away. She got up suddenly, told Rachel to wait here a minute before going in her room and coming back with a thick book in her hand.

"Do you know Charles Dickens ?" she asked the brunette.

"Vaguely," she admitted. "I might have read one of his tales when I was little."

"I'd like you to read this one, if you don't mind."

Rachel took the book between her hands, turned it over, read the tile which was written in bold, black letters : _Great Expectations_.

"It may seem strange," the blonde went on, "But... I don't want to give you false hope, Rachel. Right now, you are living with me, but who knows, you might have to flee again if times get tougher, and I can't give you unlimited safety, and I think that... if you read this book, maybe you'll understand what I'm trying to say," she finished while looking down. "I've never been good with words. And it could keep you occupied instead of going in circles all day."

The brown-haired girl smiled. "I'm going to read this book. But, I think that I understand what you're trying to say." she said while affectionately squeezing her shoulder.

Later in the evening, while the two women were peeling potatoes and carrots for dinner, Quinn put her vegetable peeler down and said in a whisper :

"You know, Mercedes doesn't go out either."

Rachel slowed down her movements, interested by what the blonde could tell her.

"Is that... because she is black?"

"Yes," Quinn replied, nodding. "Sam is afraid that she'll be stigmatized or that somebody would hurt her. If we were still living in a free country, cases like this would be much less common."

The smaller girl kept silent, feeling a great sympathy toward this young woman who was always smiling, friendly, and kind, who had opened her door her without asking anything even though Rachel was just a stranger.

"Sam tried to make her go away, you know," Quinn went on when she saw that Rachel's expression grew somber. "He tried to send her to his cousins so that she won't be obliged to stay inside all the time, so that nobody would pick on her. But Mercedes didn't want to hear a single thing about her going away."

A smile adorned the blonde's lips, who slowly shook her head while thinking about Mercedes's determination and the strength she must have to decide to stay in an occupied land. Mercedes never had been a woman who would submit to any authority.

"This woman is really lucky. I think I'm a bit jealous of her."

* * *

One night when Quinn was annotating documents (the ones she got from Sam) and the radio was on, broadcasting some music from the BBC, a song which was hummed drew her attention. It came from the kitchen. She remained seated, her brows furrowing, searching in her memories what this melody without lyrics was when Rachel came into the living room, two plates full of food in her hands and this same familiar tune on the tip of her lips.

The blonde hadn't seen her this relaxed. Maybe the girl was becoming herself again.

But before Quinn could inquire about what she was singing, there were knocks on the door, the same pattern that she used when knocking on her neighbors' door.

Rachel had suddenly shut down and was looking at Quinn with worried eyes.

"Don't worry, it's probably Sam or Mercedes." she said with a smile to reassure her.

From the other side of the door was neither of them, but a surprise just as pleasant for Quinn, who soon found herself between two thin arms and lifted in the air.

"Quinn ! I am so happy to see you !"

"Me too, Britt," the smaller blonde laughed. "You look well."

Upon hearing voices and laughter which didn't sound like somebody she knew, Rachel moved forward with caution. When she came in the hall she didn't expect to see two blonde women. Quinn saw that her roommate seemed a bit lost, so she made a sign to let her know she could come near without fear.

"Rachel, this is Brittany, one of my closest friends. Brittany, you may have heard about Rachel. She's living with me for the moment."

"I am glad I finally get the chance to meet you, Rachel," the tall blonde said while smiling and hugging her for a minute. "I hope that we'll see each other again !"

Then Brittany slipped a similar envelope that Sam's into Quinn's hands, and a goodbye later, she was going down the stairs. Rachel wasn't sure about what just happened, but upon seeing the craft envelope that Quinn was holding, she thought that she just met an incredible character in the form of a whirlwind.

"She may seem a bit weird," Quinn said when she closed the front door, "But she's truly amazing when you get to know her."

"I have no doubt about that." the brunette replied, smiling. It was as if a ray of sunshine had just visited her.

* * *

 _Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him. Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance._

 _— Sun Tzu._


	5. Chapter 5

**Here is the next part. I hope you're still bearing with me. Don't forget to leave a review if you want to ask me a question, point some mistakes to me or just to tell me how do you like the story so far. (:**

* * *

Thus, Quinn had a second envelope, the same as the previous one, with the same content. She opened it after dinner and, with a pencil, she read and annotated gingerly every document. Rachel wondered a little more each day about what Quinn could possibly be doing, when she was staying awake with only the light of her kerosene lamp amid all those papers for hours. But she never spoke to Quinn about it, for fear of seeming intrusive or crossing the borders of the cordiality which had settled between them.

Except that this night, she mustered the courage and decided to break the ice between them to satisfy her overwhelming curiosity, even though it might mean she would have to pay the price later.

Quinn was sitting on the couch, glasses on her nose, a pen in her hand, dozens of sheets of paper scattered all over the coffee table. She seemed absorbed by her reading, she didn't even notice that Rachel was watching her for a few minutes. Rachel wondered if she truly had the right to stick her nose in business that didn't concern her.

The brunette sat beside her, without Quinn doing anything to show that she had noticed her, then she stopped.

"What are you doing ?" she said in a voice she hoped sounded detached and disinterested.

The silence being broken, the blonde seemed to get out of her reading and realized that Rachel was sitting beside her, her hands on her knees. She was waiting for an answer but was also beginning to regret asking her question. Quinn acted by reflex and grabbed all the documents, then gathered them in a stack before putting them between the armrest of the couch and her body.

"Nothing," she replied after a beat, as if she was caught off guard. "That was, uh, things that Sam and Brittany gave me. Nothing of much importance. They wanted to show me their work before... publishing it."

Quinn hoped that her nervousness didn't transpired much in her words. What she just said wasn't false, in fact ; these documents were from her two friends, and they had given them to her before their publication. Except that they were much more important than it seemed.

Rachel didn't look like she was pleased by her answer, but, as she often did, she nodded and dropped the subject, at least for the moment.

The young Jew went to bed early, as usual, but not any wiser as to the occupations of her hostess. She didn't actually care about what Quinn was doing during her free time, but she was starting to wonder how did she get her money, since she looked like she didn't have a job and she spent most of her time at home. She also didn't appear like she was in need. The plates were always full, at lunch as well as dinner.

Even though it puzzled her a bit more day after day, the dark-haired girl didn't refer to it anymore. She was already lucky to have found Quinn and to be housed.

On the other hand, the young blonde, after reading again and again a section of one document in particular, couldn't believe her eyes.

Yet, it was clearly written in black and white, as the rest was. Corsica was free. She had heard about the operation conducted by the French Liberation Army — led by Henri Giraud and Charles de Gaulle — who was bound to happen on Corsican soil, but she didn't pay attention to it, because she had thought that this campaign would be a failure.

She had been so wrong. But, how she was glad to have been mistaken ! Her presumptions were fortunately wrong ; all the better.

Corsica was free. France wasn't entirely occupied by the Nazis anymore. And perhaps, if she dared think about the most optimistic scenarios, other departments would be freed, then the whole country, then Austria and Poland, and even Germany, and Hitler would be defeated, and Nazism would be buried forever, bound to stay a bad, bloody, deadly memory, but it would only be a memory. It would be dead, and its ideas with it. The world would have seen the abominations it was capable of, and would have decided unanimously to never repeat it. The lands once occupied would rebuild themselves, as well as all the people who had been oppressed, harassed, stigmatized. Nothing would ever be the same again.

But it was only the best of the cases, it was still a utopia. The army had only freed Corsica, and mainland France was still into the hands of the occupying forces

Quinn sighed. The war wasn't going to be over yet, but maybe that this impromptu liberation of a single department would be the beginning of a change.

* * *

Quinn didn't tell the news to Rachel.

She wasn't really sure about why she was keeping quiet, why she didn't want to tell her that Corsica was now free. Rachel had the right to know, after all. She nearly told her, a few days later, while the brunette was singing softly in the kitchen while making dinner. But then she was picturing her hopes which might be false that she would give her by telling her, and the joy that Rachel would feel by learning that they would soon be free, and the disappointment that she would experience, great and incommensurable, when she will realize that nobody was going to free them, that nobody could overcome the Wehrmacht and the Gestapo.

To protect her, Quinn said to herself. She was withholding the information to protect her.

The blonde went out for a moment after lunch to retrieve her mail, as she was doing every day, and was pleasantly surprised to see an envelope with a round and neat handwriting on it. She knew this writing too well. With a smile on her lips, she went back to her apartment, feeling as if a new energy was spreading into her body, like every time she got a letter from this sender.

Unsurprisingly, Rachel had noticed the smile that her hostess was wearing all afternoon, while reading again and again the same letter on the couch. She wanted to know who could write a letter that gave so much joy to Quinn, curious as she was, but she remembered too well the awkward and clumsy moment that had taken place four days ago, when she had asked Quinn what she was doing with all these documents, and how the blonde had immediately shut down upon hearing her question.

That was why she continued to conduct her daily business, keeping in mind her interrogations, without worrying about what Quinn was doing — or at least, she tried. She failed, because the blonde noticed her glances and, without losing her smile, gestured to her to sit beside her on the couch.

Rachel thought that she must be a little lunatic, because she acted totally differently than a few days ago, or that she was extremly lenient. She preferred the second option.

Quinn looked again at the paper, a peaceful and tranquil air floating on her face. "My sister wrote me a letter," she said softly. The brunette could hear her smile through her suave, tender voice.

The smaller girl took a comfortable place, having a feeling that the conversation between them would be a lot easier now that Quinn was at ease. And she seemed willing to talk to her and with her. Quinn had a distant air in her eyes when she spoke, which made them seem grey instead of their usual hazel color.

"My sister Frannie is in Algeria," the blonde said to Rachel as if the latter had always knew the woman. "She says that she arrived by ship in Alger three months ago, and now she is near Tizi Ouzou. She doesn't want to give me too much information about where she lives exactly, but she met the French Liberation Army and Henri Giraud. It's incredible. I can't believe that she managed to send me this letter without being censored."

Rachel was listening intently, interested in learning more about Quinn, even if the only thing needed so that the blonde would open up to her was a letter from her sister.

Shyly, she asked her a question : "Is she there for a specific purpose ?"

Quinn turned her head toward her, smiled lightly when remembering that she had never talked to the small brunette about her sister. "She's a Resistance fighter. She was part of a group that first settled in the South of France and that essentially did acts of sabotage, of railways for instance. They had never been caught. She's a really tough woman. She doesn't fear reprisals. The she went to Spain, and now she is in Algeria, where she's helping radio stations so that they can broadcast in France. She's scrambling signals, I guess. I'm not sure. Frannie is kind of cryptic with her explanations."

Quinn's sister portrait began to take shape in Rachel's mind ; she was picturing a young blonde woman, more or less of the same age as Quinn, with a mysterious look and a confident step, not afraid to risk her life for other people's lives. Another Quinn, sort of, more manual than intellectual, more bold than thoughtful.

"You would like her," Quinn went on, caught in her memories. She was relieved to know that Frannie was healthy and safe. It lifted off a weight on her heart. Rachel looked up at the blonde.

"She's an amazing person. Perhaps that one day, she'll come back in France, she'll come to Paris and you could meet her."

"I'd like that," the brunette answered.

There was a silence. Then, a tiny voice, distant, for such a big question : "Do you think that France will be free soon ?"

Quinn didn't reply for a moment. She sighed heavily, looked again at the letter in her hands, at the hopes formulated by her sister, at the documents resting on the coffee table that told the liberation of Corsica. All of this were good news, they were hopes for a future less dark, and yet Quinn was hesitant to belive it. It was too good to be true.

"I don't know, Rachel," Quinn said finally with a heavy voice, having losing its joy. "I hope so. I hope that all of this will be over, sooner than later. "

The dark-haired girl didn't say a thing. She was gazing at the window, at the transparent curtains from which you could see the roofs of Paris, the clear, sheer blue sky, the pigeons perched here and there or lulled by the breeze. If she concentrated, she could nearly feel the wind on her skin, bristling her hair, the smell that she had detected when she arrived in town and its thousands of scents, the paving stones under her feet, the shouts of the merchants through their stalls, the sun warming directly her body and not through a glass anymore.

She wondered if she could, one day, taste again all these sensations, which seemed banal to everybody but to her, appeared as the most precious thing in the world. She wondered if she would ever be free again.

* * *

This afternoon at the end of October announced in fact the beginning of autumn and a refreshment in the air. Thus the fog was wrapping Paris up in a white veil every morning, and it was getting dark earlier.

A disc by Édith Piaf was filling the silence of the apartment with her cheeky and sizzling voice. Rachel was humming the chorus of _l'Accordéoniste_ , almost making the voice coming from the phonograph sounding dull as compared to hers, warm, alive and real.

Quinn was letting herself being lulled by this comforting tune, lost in her imagination, when she suddenly realized that it was ridiculous. She hadn't anything to hide from Rachel. Rachel didn't hide a single thing from her. She owned her the truth, after all.

When the disc stopped and Rachel came near to remove it, Quinn halted her.

"I have something to tell you."

Her voice was calm, making the brunette understand that she hadn't anything to worry about. She hesitated for a minute in the middle of the living room, before choosing to sit down on the couch. Quinn had a serious look on her face, her hands on her knees, her brows furrowing a little. Rachel tried not to think about the worst she could tell her. She tried to get rid of these somber thoughts by shaking her head, then took a deep breath.

"What is it ?" she said in a suddenly weaker voice than the one she had when she was singing a few moments ago, carefree and warm.

"You have to promise me not to tell anybody," the blonde replied. "It's... it's about those documents that you saw me reading the other day."

"Oh. Alright." Rachel stopped a moment, before resuming: "You know, if this bothers you to talk about it, you are not obliged to do it. That's not my business."

"It doesn't bother me, it's just that it's kind of tricky," Quinn whispered. "Can you promise not to tell anyone ?"

"Whom do you want me to tell, Quinn ?" the small Jew replied with a wry smile. "I am not seeing anybody beside you, Sam and Mercedes. It's not as if I could shout from the rooftops. And if I wanted to reveal what I know about you to the government or anyone else, in the end I'll be the one who has the most to lose."

"It's true. I'm sorry."

Rachel smiled bitterly. She was feeling this weird sensation inside her chest every time that Quinn seemed to forget that she had to hide, that this condition didn't depend on her. And Quinn was apologizing again, even though she wasn't the one that had to do it.

The brunette wondered if Quinn's other neighbors were aware of her existence, if they were suspecting of the presence of another person in this third floor apartment. As far as she knew, only Mercedes and Sam knew that she was living here, but she doubted that Quinn had talked about her to other people. There was also this Sue Sylvester that the blonde had stated, and that was all. She was a ghost for the others, a spirit but genuine, that nobody could see or hear.

"These documents," Quinn resumed, taking Rachel out of her daydream, "they will be published. Clandestinely, actually. In a newspaper which normally can't be published. Sam writes some articles, and the blonde woman that you have seen the other day, Brittany, does it too ; then they bring me by hand what they wrote, so that the mail isn't intercepted. It's not much, only four pages in which we try to denounce the new laws and this degenerated regime controlling us."

Rachel was beginning to have a glimpse of the scope of work, and she understood the reasons why Quinn had concealed this part of her life.

"I don't have a great part in this, I only write some little things from time to time, or I summarize the last radio programs of the BBC for people who are not able to listen to it, like _Les Français parlent aux Français_. That's all. We try to publish every two weeks, or rather Sue tries to publish every two weeks. She's the one who takes care of the printing and the publishing. She has access to the necessary material and nobody holds her accountable. She's also the one providing us paper and ink. We couldn't have succeed without her," she finished with a smile.

"Nobody holds her accountable ?" Rachel repeated. "How's that ?"

"She knows many people in powerful positions, according to her. She never told me how she could have slipped through the cracks so many times."

The dark-haired woman nodded her head. It all seemed clearer now, even though she had no idea how Quinn could survive without a wage. She assumed that she would get the answer one day, when the blonde would feel more at ease and would trust her.

"I won't tell a thing," Rachel said, smiling softly, as if to reassure the young woman that she would keep the secret.

Their only weapons were their pens and pencils, blackening paper with the intent of denouncing people that could make them fall with the snap of a finger, with heir guns and their bullets. Yet they went on with their work against injustice and for freedom of people. Perhaps that was it, true courage that the ancient philosopher and those from the Enlightenment were talking about. To fight injustices without fearing death, which could be waiting for them at every corner, and to never forget why the French Revolution happened in 1789 ; for freedom and human rights.

* * *

Quinn leaved to replenish her pantry and her fridge two days later, at five in the afternoon. She would rather leave early not to get startled by the night that was coming earlier, or by a soldier, or both.

It seemed to her that, in the almost deserted town, her bike was making rousing noises, squeaking at each pedal stroke, as if it wanted to wake the neighborhood to draw attention on her suspicious behavior ad her illegal acts. Her backpack, filled with a dozen of handwritten pages, was weighing on her shoulders, as to recall her of its existence and the symbolic meaning it had. In one hour it'll be completely full, and much heavier to carry.

But she knew deep inside that her fears were unfounded.

Her bicycle wasn't creaking much, the wheels weren't making any noise on the pavement. The streets were quiet, as well as the buildings, and nobody was looking at her or even noticing her. No light beam was directed toward her, no blinking sign was pointing at her in the dusk.

She arrived at Sue's ten minutes later, relieved to be able to put her feet on the ground and to see that she was alone in the street, perfectly alone.

Quinn entered in the shop, crossed the racks and shelves, went downstairs to arrive at this second place which was invisible in the eyes of the public, as if it was a second town under the cobblestones. The tall blonde woman was here, as usual, behind a counter which served as a desk at the back of the room. She was apparently waiting for Quinn because she was already standing, smiling at her.

"You don't come empty-handed, as I can see," Sue said when the young girl produced some sheets from her bag put together with a paperclip.

Quinn handed her the stack of paper, then smiled mysteriously. "I keep my promises, Sue. You'll see that Brittany has slipped some papers that she got from her cousin, who lives in Holland. You'll see if you want to publish it or not."

"I will read it tonight. Thanks, Q."

The blonde nodded in response.

"How is your captive ?"

"Rachel is doing fine. She can walk normally, she's starting to smile again. She's not too terrified by what's happening outside, I guess."

"Glad to hear it. It is best that she doesn't worry unnecessarily."

Quinn smiled a little and nodded. She kept quiet a few seconds, before looking toward the crammed shelves. "Frannie sent me a letter," she said in a toneless voice.

"Yes ?" said the taller woman, her interest piqued. "How is she ? I didn't see her for such a long time."

"She's doing fine, that's what she told me. She has arrived in Algeria, to work with pirate radios, to jam up enemy frequency bands. Things like that, more or less hazardous."

Sue saw Quinn's eyes starting to cloud. She came near her, put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed affectionately.

"I am sure that she is alright, Quinn," Sue affirmed with a low, powerful voice. "Frannie can cope on her own. She would have told you if she needed help."

"I know," the young woman replied weakly, almost in a whisper. "It's just that I'm afraid that something will happen to her, and that I won't be there to save her or to prevent her from being too careless."

Sue pulled her toward her, ran her hand on her back to try and comfort her, to make her understand that everything would be alright for her sister and that it was futile to worry. Quinn stayed against her shoulder for a moment, trying to contain her tears, before pulling back a little to pass the sleeve of her sweater against her eyes.

The older blonde smiled weakly. "You can let go. It won't be the first time that I see you crying, you know."

"I know," Quinn replied while chuckling bitterly. "But if I start now, I won't be able to stop."

Sue looked at her for a moment, looking for words that could ease the fears of the younger sister. "Frannie is a Fabray, you know. I heard that you don't give up easily in this family. She is going to be okay. She is perhaps safer abroad than here. If she writes that she is fine, then you have to believe her. When she will come back, and that will be soon, you could resume your lives and you will think that today's discussion was really stupid, Q."

"I hope you're right."

The taller woman offered her an enigmatic smile. "I am always right, Quinn."

* * *

 _Pourquoi, à l'instar des objets, n'existe-t-il pas un bureau des amours perdues et trouvées ?_

 _— Pierre Dac._


	6. Chapter 6

**Again, a big thanks to Hazel006 for betaing. Also, a big thanks to you, readers, who have followed, favorited or left a review. It means a lot.**

* * *

Quinn exited the boutique and found her bike at the exact same place where she had left it. Her backpack was weighing more than before, but not her wallet. Sue had refused the money that she had wanted to give her for the food.

It wasn't unusual. Even though Quinn wanted to pay for what she would later consume — a matter of principle — and even though she knew the tall blonde wasn't in need, Sue prevented her to do so sometimes, telling her to keep her money in case of emergency or things more important. It was true that the young woman wasn't exactly penniless — in other words, she could pay. That being so, it was good to feel that Sue Sylvester was caring about her, through those small automatisms like the fact that she had some difficulties to accept money from Quinn, or that she wanted at all costs that Quinn would visit her at least once a week, even if it was just to do small talk.

She was glad to have a person like Sue in her life, on whom she could count on at any time.

Quinn got on her bike and began to bike the streets northward. Once in Place Pigalle, her leg muscles were the most sought, but she had to increase her attention as well. Many soldiers went out at night in this area next to the Moulin Rouge, roaming around cabarets, cafés-concerts and music-halls in a city that offered too many choices.

However, only the insides of the stores were swarming of people. In the falling night, and even in the day, the streets were becoming emptier. The formerly Montmartre was throbbing with energy at every corner, every cranny. Everything seemed inhabited by a same movement that never faded, from evening to dawn. Music filled the crevices between the stones, and enchanted every ear that hear the string of a violin vibrating or the rousing melodies of an accordion.

All of this had changed today. The once continuous movements on the boulevards and the streets had been replaced by some passersby during daytime, and nobody or so during nighttime, once so restless. It didn't come in a single day, but settled gradually. Quinn had noticed the change when she went for a walk on the butte and couldn't hear the sound of a single instrument.

It had surprised her so much that she hadn't understood why in the first place. Her nocturnal walks were one of the reasons that she had fell in love with Paris.

Few inhabitants dared going out now that the town was under German occupation. Some of them were supporting them, but others hated them, and tried not to cross the road of a soldier, even if they had to stay cloistered at home for that.

Quinn hated Nazis. It didn't stop her from striding in the streets, on foot or with her bicycle, even if she felt uneasy every time a soldier called on her or looked toward her. It wasn't the soldiers that she hated, but Nazis ; she knew that some of them had been enlisted by force, against their will, or had signed up without feeling any form of sympathy for Hitler's regime — they hadn't joined to fight or to kill innocent people, but only so they could be paid, and feed their family, and keep it away from this barbaric acts.

Of course, some soldiers were lawless. But some others hadn't had a choice.

* * *

November came, and the beginning of winter with it. The air was becoming dryer but wasn't aggressive yet. Quinn decided then to find her coat which had stayed inside her closet for months.

One night when she was looking for her jacket between the dresses and the cardigans on the hangers — Rachel owned some of them, since Quinn had insisted that she hanged them near hers —, the small brunette, sitting cross-legged on the bed, put the book that she was reading down and watched her hostess.

"Quinn ?"

She answered with a vague sound, signaling that she was listening to her while keeping on looking for her garment.

"I have to give you back your bed."

It made the blonde stop in her tracks. She turned around, brows furrowed, and looked at Rachel.

"Why are you saying this ?"

"I mean, my foot doesn't hurt anymore," the brunette replied almost shyly. "Also, this is your room. Your bed. You must want to have them back. I feel bad knowing that you're sleeping on the couch every night because of me."

"I'm not sleeping on the couch because of you, Rachel," Quinn giggled. The dark-haired girl flashed her a feeble smile before looking at her knees and tangled hands. Upon seeing her like this, so fragile, huddled in on herself, Quinn thought that there was much more than just a bed behind her words. She sat down beside her, their shoulders touching.

"Honestly, it doesn't bother me to sleep in the living room," the taller one said softly. "But I'd prefer it if you would have the bed, because after everything you told me, what you went through these last years, I think that it won't be much luxury if you would rest in a warm, dry and comfy place."

"I can understand that," Rachel nodded. "But still, I barged in here when you hadn't asked for anything, and you're forced to share your apartment, your food and hot water with a Jew like me. I feel bad knowing that."

Quinn kept silent. She understood what Rachel was saying. The girl was maybe even thinking that Quinn felt forced to give her a place to sleep, now that she had invited her, and that she only did that by Christian charity or something else. She thought for a moment about a solution that could satisfy both herself and her guest.

"Say, would it take a weight off you if I proposed that we sleep together ?" She blushed a little knowing that the brunette could misinterpret her words. But the other girl only looked at her strangely through her brown strands.

"There's no need for that," Rachel said, "I can sleep on the couch, or even someplace else, I can assure you that it won't bother me."

"There is no way I'm going to let you sleep on that sofa. You are my guest, kind of, and I have to ensure that you are properly settled here. Also, winter is going to come quickly. Believe me, when you'll sense how much it can be cold in this apartment without heating, especially in the living room, you'll be glad to find yourself stuck between tons of blankets and duvets."

Rachel chuckled softly. It was true that Quinn's offer was more than seductive. Yet she felt that she was depriving the blonde of her own comfort, her own bed, in her own house, and that she had no right to do so.

Perhaps the solution she had suggested wasn't so bad.

"So..." Rachel said, a bit unsure, "You wouldn't mind sharing your bed with me ? This is only a single bed."

Quinn shrugged. "We will have another heat source if we proceed this way. And the human body is one of the best heat provider. Unless it makes you uncomfortable ?" she asked while looking at her.

"No, of course not," she added quickly, "It's just that..."

"What is it ? You surely have already shared a bed with someone else, haven't you ?"

When Rachel looked down and didn't answer, Quinn realized that she mustn't have asked all these questions and backtracked.

"I'm sorry, it's none of my business. I apologize."

The brunette laughed softly, bitterly, then shook her head while keeping her gaze down. "Stop apologizing, you didn't do anything wrong." She took a deep breath. "The only people with whom I have slept were my parents, and that was years ago, when I was still a little girl and I had nightmares. I hadn't really have friends with whom I could spend my days, much less my nights."

Quinn took one of Rachel's hands that were resting upon her knees and squeezed it with compassion. After a few seconds, she spoke again.

"If it really does annoy you, I can let you take the bed. Don't worry about me."

"No," the dark-haired girl replied. "You can sleep here. You are the one who decides, after all."

The blonde offered a small smile to her companion. "I'm not used to share a mattress anymore, you know. For a long time I had to cope and live alone in this apartment. I was living with a friend for a while", she added when she felt Rachel's confused gaze on her.

"Why doesn't she live here anymore?"

"She left," Quinn said after a slight hesitation. "She couldn't live in this country anymore, deprived of her liberty."

Rachel nodded. "Where is she now ?"

Quinn opened her mouth to answer but no sound came out. Against her will, her eyes filled themselves with tears that she tried to hold back, like every time she thought of that painful period of her life. From the corner of her eye, she saw the little Jew smiling at her.

"You needn't talk to me now," she said in a much softer voice than a minute ago. "I understand. If you want to talk about it one day, I'll listen to you."

Thereupon she stood up, squeezed a last time the pale hand in hers, and then leant forward to kiss Quinn's cheek. She then got out of the bedroom and let the blonde so that she could pull herself together. She had a feeling that Quinn belonged to that kind of people that needed time before fully trusting someone, even more when this someone was almost a stranger.

She would wait as long as needed for the blonde to feel at ease in her presence.

In the room, Quinn kept still, her eyes shining, her cheeks pink, a slight smile drawing itself on her lips. She felt that through this kiss, Rachel had wanted to thank her for all that she has gave her since she had discovered her in this basement ; a home, meals, clothes, soap, and maybe even trust and friendship.

* * *

As Quinn predicted, winter came in a blink, the apartment wasn't heated, and soon the town seemed as if it was paralyzed by the cold. There were less passersby in the streets, if it was even possible, and few sellers dared defy the Parisian cold to display their products on the markets.

Rachel spent her days by reading books from Quinn's bookcases, which was even full than her pantry. She owned tons of novels, short stories, tales, books on biology, chemistry, and even some comic books. The brunette chose one of the latter ; she caught sight of an album of Tintin, _L'Île Noire_ , which she remembered having read when she was younger.

She read for about thirty minutes before Quinn came into the room, a little before two in the afternoon. She gave her a friendly smile.

"Would you like to visit Mercedes and Sam ? I have some errands to run in the meantime."

Rachel smiled and said that it would delight her.

Fifteen minutes later, she found herself in Quinn's neighbors' living room — whom had also became her own neighbors —, with a cup of tea between her hands to warm her up in an apartment as cold as the one a floor above. Rachel grinned when she recognized the voices of the Andrews Sisters in the background. Quinn wasn't the only one who loved the great voices of the time.

The young blonde woman stayed a moment chatting with them before excusing herself, because she had to leave to take care of some business. It didn't bother Rachel ; to spend time with her neighbors and friends was a real pleasure.

The three of them shared banalities about every topic that came to their minds, joking a little, as if they have always known each other. Rachel learned that Mercedes and Sam met each other five years ago, and had been together ever since. Mercedes was from the French Antilles, she came to Paris to study and to work — it was only when she told what her origins were that Rachel noticed the slight sunny accent never leaving her voice.

When Sam began to explain that his family had lived in the region for decades, Rachel thought immediately about Quinn; the girl had never talked about her family, except her sister when she received her letter.

She wondered if she should ask for more information about her to her neighbors, but thought it would be unwelcome to learn more about her roommate this way. And Quinn probably wouldn't appreciate her trying to get information about her family without talking to her first.

However, the conversation turned quickly around the young blonde woman, when Sam said that he had first met her when she arrived in the capital.

"I don't know exactly where she comes from," the blonde guy said. "Near the Marne, or the Seine-et-Marne."

"Oh. I thought that she has always lived here," Rachel said with hesitation.

"No. She was seventeen when she arrived in Paris. I think that she had lived with Sue Sylvester for a while, but I'm not sure. You probably noticed, but Quinn is very discreet on her personal life."

"It's true," Mercedes chuckled. "It took her months before inviting us over for tea."

Rachel smiled. This draft corresponded with the idea she had of Quinn — a confident, bold woman, who didn't give her blind trust to the first stranger. Her friendship had to be won. That was why she seemed so reluctant when the discussion wandered into her past.

Yet, she made Rachel stay with her without thinking about it too much. She would be eternally grateful to her for that, even though she didn't know what to do to prove her gratitude or to return the favor.

"Time passed, and our friendship was beginning to toughen," Sam continued. "At first it was the three of us, then Brittany when she got in Paris. It was roughly at the same time that France had lost the war and we were invaded. And it prompted us to create this newspaper that Sue publishes for us. It has shaken us up, but it has also brought us closer, in a way."

Rachel must have looked at him strangely, because he smiled bashfully, before making a gesture to Mercedes to take over the lead.

"Everything came very fast. We didn't know that Paris was going to be under German domination. Who could have predicted it ? It happened in a way so unexpected that nobody knew what to do. I guess that we were all paralyzed by fear — fear of the unknown was stronger than anything. We didn't know what would happen with this new government. Was Hitler going to govern France ? To destroy it under the bombs ? To merge it with the German empire, or transform it so that it becomes an annex of the Third Reich ? Most of all, was this situation going to last ?

"It was because all of those reasons, in my opinion, that organizing what we call the Resistance took time, especially here in metropolis. We had to know more about the country's situation, about everyday life before starting a thing. I didn't do anything at first. I didn't act, because I thought that other people were going to, and because I haven't the means to do so. I am only a woman, a black woman, and I couldn't do anything against a monster like Nazism. I decided to create this newspaper with Quinn, after that she had proposed the idea to Sam, Brittany and me."

"We are not obeying, but we are not disobeying either," the blonde man said. "We try at best not to bend under this illegitimate form of authority. We only exist trying to forget these enemies, these murderers that are war and Nazism. We're not unrealistic ; we know that they are here, all the time, everywhere. And that life would never be the same again. But we want to get out of it, and for that to happen we must revolt, even if it's through a small illegal paper that doesn't make waves."

Rachel understood. She had now a greater grasp of the events, of the reasons pushing them to write clandestinely. The next words that came out of her mouth made Rachel blush a little while she said them: "I don't know what to do to thank her."

Mercedes looked at her strangely, with an eyebrow lifted. "Quinn ? What do you want to thank her for, sweetheart ?"

"For everything," the brunette replied while shrugging. "For rescuing me when I had nowhere to go."

The pair shared a knowing smile, and Sam put his hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Believe me, Quinn isn't of the kind to wait for thanks or anything else. If she lets you living with her, it's not because she wants you to feel forced to give her something in return. She simply likes to do good around her, without asking for anything in exchange, at least that's what I like to believe," he finished smiling.

The young Jew nodded slowly. "It's probably true. But I'm feeling more like I am a burden to her than anything else."

"I doubt it very much," Mercedes intervened. "Quinn isn't afraid to say what she thinks about people, even less when people hurt her. And she probably wouldn't have kept you with her more than three months if that was the case."

Rachel lifted a brow, an amused smile on her lips. Listening to these two defending their friend was entertaining, and even amusing. Adorable, in a way, to see how much they held her in high regard.

"Quinn is one of my only friends," she went on. "She's one of the most sympathetic and kind-hearted human beings that I know. She cares more about people that she likes than herself, you are the perfect example, Rachel. She didn't hesitate to take you in even though she didn't know you. I think that she has trusted her instinct by offering you to stay with her, and her instinct is rarely wrong. That's what makes her the woman that she is today : confident, trustworthy, and convinced in her decisions. You don't have to doubt her, Rachel. If you trust her, she'll trust you in turn."

The brunette felt a vague emotion piercing her throat, tightening her chest. Perhaps they were the words that she dreaded, but that she had needed to her for a long time.

In the meantime, Quinn had took the Boulevard de Rochechouart, went down the Boulevard de Magenta and turned left into La Fayette Street. It was one of the roads that saw many people, because the street was near the Gare de l'Est and the Gare du Nord. It was a bit hard for Quinn to navigate through the passersby that were more or less in a hurry.

It was in one of those Haussmanian buildings bordering the road that Brittany was living.

The blonde had not, strictly speaking, invited her, but Quinn knew that her door was always open. She attached her bicycle, then went she ran the stairs up to Brittany's apartment, while she thought about what she could tell her once in front of her. Of course, she knew why she had come to her. She just lacked the words to transform her thoughts into speech.

She knocked at the door, and her friend came to open a few seconds later.

"Quinn !" she exclaimed, before hugging her. Brittany's embraces were always welcome, and could make anyone smile.

Brittany Pierce was a true energy ball and good humoured, despite the hard times she had been through. Her and her family were from Holland, but had fled in 1940 when Germany invaded it as well as Belgium. They sought refuge in Paris, who had been declared an open city, and lived at their cousin's, so they wouldn't be exposed to the bombings and to avoid at best the war zones, unfortunately there were many in the Netherlands.

Brittany offered to Quinn some tea — it was the only thing that she drank these days — and told her to sit comfortably on the couch. The remaining of the Pierce family was working, which made the two women the sole occupants of the apartment. It didn't do a thing to put the younger's nerves at ease; she was still trying to find the best way to bring the topic without being so sudden.

The Dutchwoman talked easily, and was doing many gestures with her hands while speaking, as energetic as her personality.

When Rachel's name dropped into the conversation, Quinn jumped at the chance.

"Britt... I wanted to talk to you about Rachel."

Upon hearing her quiet voice, the taller woman stopped her elucubrations and gave her all her attention. Quinn didn't avoid her gaze, despite the fact that her eyes seemed worried and her skin paler than usual.

"What is it ? Is she alright ?" she asked, unsure.

"Yes, she is healthy. Actually, it's not really about Rachel, but something concerning her."

"Tell me everything."

Brittany's blue eyes, so cheerful a minute ago, were inspiring confidence and calm, and Quinn remembered while looking at them why she had come to Brittany in the first instance.

"I want to tell Rachel, about me. Or rather, I have to tell her," Quinn said in a low tone, even though there were only the both of them and nobody could hear them.

"Tell her what ?"

"That I," the younger woman swallowed hard, "That I prefer women. Not men."

"Well, then, tell her…" Brittany answered as if it was the simplest thing to do.

"I don't know if I can do it," the other replied. "I cannot predict her reaction."

"So, why would you want to risk your cohabitation ? Do you have a reason that incites you to tell her ?"

Yes, Quinn had one. She nodded then looked down. Was it worth the risk of losing the trust and maybe Rachel's friendship ? She wasn't certain.

"We sleep in the same bed," she said after a moment, while looking toward Brittany. "She was feeling guilty about me sleeping in the living room, and let's say that we have found an agreement. Also, it starts getting cold, and there's still no heating."

"I see," Brittany stated. She took a few moments to think, then added: "Are you sure about your decision ?"

"I'm not," she admitted. "But I can't not tell her. Too much things are concealed, and I don't want to hide a single thing from her that could endanger our relationship. I feel like I'm lying to her about who I am, and if she maybe learns that I like women by a different way, she will feel betrayed, or hurt, or used, or something else. I think that it's best if I talk to her myself."

"Of course, Quinn," the tall blonde smiled. "It's the best thing to do. Do it when you'll feel capable, and everything will be alright, trust me."

Quinn smiled sadly. "I hope that you're right, Britt."

"You know what Tennyson said : 'trust me not at all, or all in all.' This sentence works in both ways. Trust her, and she'll trust you as well. On the contrary, if she already trust you, then you have to do the same."

Brittany had a real gift ; she could put a smile on people's faces.

* * *

December came in the form of a white, early fog and a cold breeze. Days went by fast, maybe too fast, but the nights were long and restful. There wasn't any doubt anymore : winter was installed for good in the capital.

Christmas period came, and marked the four months of the cohabitation between Quinn and Rachel. The blonde, who didn't know if her roommate was used to celebrate this Christian feast, decided not to hold a great feast, like the past few years — she couldn't afford it anyway. But Christmas 1943 was different from the previous years, because she wasn't alone.

She didn't know much about Jewish culture and celebrations, but Quinn however knew that Hanukah fell at nearly the same time. She hoped she was right.

That was why, a day on the second week of December, she came home after a small detour at Sue's, a dozen of candles in her backpack.

When Quinn pulled the candles out of her bag and lined them up on the buffet in the living room, each of them on their base, and Rachel gave her an interrogative look, she said that they could celebrate Hanukkah during the week of December 17th to 24th, then Christmas the last day. This way, Rachel wouldn't feel put aside, and it would remind her of the traditions she had surely done before.

The small brunette's eyes moistened ; Quinn asked her if she had done something wrong, a little embarrassed about having taken a decision affecting this close the young Jew, but the latter only answered that she was just happy to see that Quinn cared so much about her. She also said that it has been years since she thought about celebrating feasts, Jewish or not, and that it was because she didn't feel safe enough to do so.

She added that the circumstances in which Christmas happened weren't important, but the people that were present, and Quinn was convinced of her kindness, of the trust Rachel put in her.

That was how they spent the week: they minded their own business during the day, then after dinner, Quinn would turn off all the lights so that only a single candle was glowing, then two candles, then three, and so on. To see the wax melting and the flames wavering in the darkness was warming their souls.

Quinn waited until the next week to inform Rachel that she wanted to talk about a subject of importance.

She was feeling weirdly brave while the dark-haired girl has already gone to bed, supposedly asleep, but she that is she had to wait another day, her nerves would get the better of her and she would have to find again all the bravery that she had gathered before talking to her.

The young woman entered the room, where Rachel was, under the covers, on the left side of the bed. She was embarrassed about having to wake her up, yet she had to do it, now or never.

"Rachel ?" Quinn mouthed.

The brunette didn't move. Quinn said her name again, sighed, then sat on the edge of the bed and lightly shook her shoulder. She saw the body of the young woman stretching in the darkness, then turn on her back before opening softly her brown eyes. Upon seeing the serious, anxious look that Quinn had on her face, Rachel felt sleep leave her instantly, and she sat up on the bed so she would face her.

"Is there a problem ?"

Perhaps a soldier was behind the door, and Quinn has come to tell her to leave, to run, and not to come back because the town has become too dangerous. But the blonde did not.

"I have to talk to you."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow ?" Rachel said, even though she already knew the answer to her question.

Quinn shook her head. "This is really important."

Rachel got more comfortable; she felt, upon hearing the determination in the blonde's voice, that what she wanted to talk about wasn't to be taken lightly — moreover, Rachel noted that it was her that took a step toward her, and she could definitely not push her away.

"I'm listening," the smaller girl smiled and grabbed her roommate's hand. She could feel her concern through her sweaty palm. Quinn swallowed, looked at the hand that was holding hers, hoping to find a little courage through this comforting contact. Her voice was nothing but a whisper in the quiet bedroom.

"I must have told you once about this friend who had lived with me," she said, hoping that Rachel remembered their previous conversation. She felt her small hand squeezing hers, which prompted her to continue: "I — she wasn't a friend." She took a deep breath, then: "She was much more than that."

The silence seemed deafening for Quinn's ears. Her temples were throbbing, her throat felt dry and compressed. Time passed, increased, as did her anguish.

Then, Rachel broke the deadly silence with a simple sentence. "She doesn't live here anymore?"

She already knew the answer, Quinn knew it. She shook her head, unable to speak. A few moments passed, fortunately much shorter, before the brown-haired girl went on. "What happened ?"

The tears came back then, and Rachel would have missed her reply, a tiny "I don't know", almost pitiful, if she hadn't sought carefully for every sound that the blonde was making. But she heard it, and she understood, and she knew what to do. She came closer to Quinn, squeezing her hand with all of her weak strength while her other hand found its way through her blonde locks, easing with this contact the young woman's unutterable fears. Quinn didn't seem offended by her initiative.

"I'm glad you told me," Rachel said after a few minutes.

"Yes ?" the blonde whispered, her voice a bit broken and uncertain.

"Absolutely. I am proud to see that you are so brave."

A small laugh escaped her lips, and all the stress that her body had accumulated was finally let out. Quinn took a profound inspiration before finally looking Rachel in the eyes.

"Thank you, Rachel."

"No, thank you."

"For what ?"

"For trusting me," she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

When Quinn went to bed fifteen minutes later, exhausted and soothed, after she drank a large glass of fresh water, she felt the brunette (that she thought already asleep) moving at her right, then she said something that stunned her.

"My parents' names were Hiram and Jacob."

And with this simple statement, Quinn's doubts and fears were erased. Because she understood what Rachel could have endured, what she herself had lived — rejection, dissimulation. She may be a little selfish, but she felt herself smiling, relieved. She wasn't alone.

In the dark, she found Rachel's wrist, which she squeezed between her fingers.

"I am glad I met you, despite the circumstances," the little brunette went on, with a sweet, sleepy voice. "Thanks to you, I can eat, wear clean clothes, wash, and sleep in a real bed."

The blonde then thought of Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights, and how this character was similar to Rachel.

"It's nothing," Quinn replied on the same tone. "But I feel a little guilty. I feel like I deprive you of your freedom because you're obliged to stay between these four walls."

"No, really not. What you offered me was more a freedom than what I had known these past three years. Even though I was on the roads and I could breathe the air outside, I wasn't free. I was living with nothing." Then Quinn felt her gaze piercing her skin, watching her in the almost complete obscurity. "Thank you."

The young woman smiled while squeezing her wrist. "You're welcome."

* * *

 _One of these mornings, you're goin' to rise up singin'_  
 _Then you spread your wings and you'll take the sky._

 _— Billie Holiday._


	7. Chapter 7

Quinn had some apprehensions when she woke up the next day. She wondered if daily life would become awkward if Rachel was going to avoid her at all costs and spend her days locked up in the bedroom after her revelation of the day before. But the brunette didn't.

She got up, entered the living room where she found, as every morning, the young Jew already up, setting the breakfast table. And, as she did every time, the latter one smiled, said a cheerful "Good morning, Quinn !" before going back to her own business, and the blonde knew that everything would be alright for her.

She knew she was lucky.

Because some others were much less fortunate.

It was normal, in a way. The era in which Quinn was living, this era full of hate, of intolerance and antipathy toward everybody, didn't allow these supposed deviant behaviors ; worse, it repressed them, it condemned them, and nobody was spared — or so. She was remembering too well the story that Sue had told her, about this young boy who was about twenty, who had come to live his dreams in the capital. He had been found in the company of a man, and the Gestapo having allegedly enough evidence or testimonies against him, he had been arrested. Sue hadn't had any more news from him.

It had chill the young woman to the bone. Sue had then hugged her while promising that she would never let anything like that happen to her. She has been a bit relieved, but now, with a woman who was captive, fugitive and roommate at once, who knew her biggest secret — that was also her biggest fear —, she was feeling more comfortable. Perhaps a bit freer, from a certain point of view.

When Quinn sat at the living room table, facing Rachel who seemed to have a good appetite and with her cheeks less hollow than when they first met, stranger to the thoughts swarming uselessly in her mind, Quinn resigned herself to forget these endlessly dwelled on reveries and to simply enjoy a morning with the young woman.

She could worry all her life, and she would prefer to use her time in a more productive way.

* * *

Like every year, Quinn's favorite neighbors invited her to spend New Year's Eve with them — they also asked her to bring Rachel with her, obviously.

Rachel had been surprised, then moved, then she panicked. She hadn't anything to wear, except some light dresses. A dinner which celebrated the end of the year and the beginning of another deserved to be honored, didn't it ? It seemed stupid to her to present herself to her hosts, wearing her daily, usual clothes. She wanted to make an effort, even it was only in her clothing as if it could give back just a little bit of their kindness and not to offend them by her lack of regard.

Deep inside, she knew that her thoughts were ridiculous. Sam and Mercedes weren't the kinds of people that judged others on their looks.

Standing in front of the open closet of the bedroom, Rachel wondered if she ultimately had done well by accepting this invitation. Quinn interrupted her thinking when she knocked softly at the door before entering. All these small tokens of appreciation, these little gestures that Quinn did toward her didn't cease to amaze her, literally.

"Am I bothering you ?" she said while sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's been an hour since you're locked in this room."

Rachel shook her head and let out a slight chuckle. She had lost track of time.

"We're expected in half an hour. Will you soon be ready ?"

The dark-haired girl shrugged, then looked down at her feet. "I don't know. I don't have anything to wear. It wouldn't be reasonable to go with a simple floral print dress."

"Why wouldn't it be reasonable ?" Quinn asked.

Rachel couldn't give a clear answer to this question — she herself didn't know what to reply. She had no idea as to how to make the blonde understand what she was feeling and what she would feel if she wore her daily clothes to that little celebration. But Quinn probably didn't need explanations about her feelings at the moment, because she smiled gently and shook her head.

"Sam and Mercedes won't be angry or disappointed because you dress with what you have, Rachel. It won't change a thing if you don't have an evening gown or a silver set. It's only a dinner between friends, between the four of us. They are already delighted that you agreed to go and, believe me, that is saying something."

"Really ?"

It was then that Quinn was sure that Rachel was truly concerned — not only by this dinner matter or the clothing but constantly. Her insecurities were eating her away, perhaps deeper than what she was implying. It was maybe because of the war, or it didn't maybe have anything to do with what was happening outside.

It didn't really mind, in fact.

Quinn stood up and put her hand on the smaller girl's shoulder.

"You worry unduly. I can lend you a dress if you wish, but, trust me," she added while squeezing her shoulder and smiling softly at her, "we won't judge you on what you wear. It's what you have in you that matters."

On that word, the young woman stepped out of the room and took back her usual spot, lying on the couch with a book between her hands.

Rachel knew that Quinn was right. She was confusing her mind with trifling matters that were worth less than a franc. Why did she want to make a good impression in pretty dresses when people were killing each other all over in the world ? There wasn't room for such low considerations. She was lucky to be still alive and healthy.

Unfortunately, she was realizing her luck a bit more each day.

* * *

Sam had brought champagne. This insignificant detail instantly hit Rachel, when the four of them were installed around a table laid for the occasion, with an immaculate tablecloth, china plates, and stem glasses.

Contrarily at what she first had thought, the apartment wasn't decorated, even so it was still warm and welcoming. You couldn't tell it was the host of a New Year's Eve, as with the streets of Paris. No garland was hanging on the lampposts, and there was not a single movement in the avenues, even though the winter was mild and there was no wind.

The graces were said just before dinner, then the four young people were able to enjoy what filled their plates down to the last crumb. The supper was very pleasant, like every time Mercedes and Sam were cooking and hosting it; only this New Year spirit was vaguely floating around them, transforming this simple dinner into something more, bringing them closer.

Rachel was under the impression that she got through a sealed tin, protected from the outside world and its cruelty, where the people that lived inside were doing all they could to forget what was surrounding them.

The two lodgers of the third floor went back home at about one in the morning, after hours of feasting, of laughing, of hugging and wishes for the new year. The tiredness was slowly catching the small brunette who, once in her pajamas, slipped under the covers with a sigh of relief. Quinn wasn't long to join her, which was contrary to her habits ; Rachel had often felt her creep in bed late at night, willing to finish reading some chapters or to take notes on the last book she read while the brown-haired girl was already drifting between sleep and unconsciousness.

Despite her impending arrival into the land of dreams and impossible, Rachel had the force to ask a question to the person lying at her left.

"Quinn ?"

"Yes ?" she answered almost instantly.

"Sam and Mercedes are Christians, right ?"

She could still see the pair holding hands while delivering a prayer, just before they began eating.

"Yes. They are Catholics. Why this question ?" she added after a beat.

Rachel didn't reply right away. Lying on her back, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she was looking for her words, like every time she started a conversation with Quinn.

"Rachel ?" the blonde repeated when she didn't hear her response. "Are you alright ?"

"I was wondering... I was wondering why you... You didn't pray with them before dinner."

Silence wrapped them once again. The small brunette wondered if this time, she hadn't purposely crossed a line she should have never approached if Quinn was definitely going to shut down and lock herself up because of a stupid thing she said.

But she had without doubt underestimated the young woman, because she replied, in a terribly calm voice, after a few minutes had passed.

"I am not sure whether I still believe in God today."

"I don't understand. You told me you were Christian, didn't you ? You showed me the cross around your neck," Rachel said without understanding.

"I am Christian, at least I was raised as a Catholic," the blonde answered. "But I'm not sure if God exists."

Rachel didn't understand. Christians were deists, she was practically sure of that. However, Quinn didn't let her in the dark much longer. She added, slowly and softly :

"There was a time when I believed in him, which is natural; during my childhood, I had religious classes, and attended a Catholic school. I had no reason to doubt his existence, obviously. I believed what I was told, what I learned. But as time went on, I began to have some questions. I'm not sure if God if he exists, has the form that we had given him." Rachel felt the blonde turn toward her. "Do you know what does the Sistine Chapel ceiling look like ?"

"No," she admitted.

"I'll show you a photograph of it. On it, Michelangelo had painted God giving life to Adam. He is shown under a human form, as an old man, wise, bearded, and I think that's how most of the people imagine him to be. Only, if he was truly a man, and if he really was wise, if he existed to reward the good and punish the bad, how could he have let Hitler come to power? How could he have given life to him? This is beyond me. If he really was this good, merciful, flawless and irreproachable being, why did he let all those horrors happen in 1914? And today? He's supposed to protect the innocents. If this God exists, I could never forgive him for those things. So, it may be easier to think that he doesn't exist."

The brunette kept silent. There was nothing to reply. Almost absent-mindedly, she moved her hand until it rested on the blonde's. It was cold and clammy, and surely as pale as ever.

She wondered if the cross that she wore around her neck grew heavier day after day, if she wore it deliberately as a burden, or if she didn't pay any more attention to it because she got accustomed to it.

However, Quinn finished her off with a simple sentence.

"This God doesn't like homosexuals, anyway."

This brought tears to her eyes, and she was nearly sure that Quinn cried silently this night.

* * *

Unlike the quite chilly December, January was dry and mild. There was almost no sun, however, Quinn thought that it felt warmer in her apartment than last year. It didn't snow, for the second year in a row, even though there were frosts on the sidewalk and the outdoor pipes.

The kettle was constantly on the gas. The cups of tea were doing wonders when they were between fingers to warm them up. Quinn had managed to retrieve some old scarves and gloves for Rachel (offered by Sue Sylvester), because, even if she never heard her complaining, she knew that she was freezing in this tiny, poorly heated apartment.

She surely would be freezing even more if she still was in the streets at this time of the year. She never really thought about it before, but giving a roof and four walls to the young Jew while winter was looming was, without a doubt, one of the best things she ever did.

In the middle of a night mid-January, Rachel had a second panic attack.

Quinn felt her more than she heard her, not like the previous time, given that she was sharing her bed. She stood in a flash, lit her bedside lamp before leaning over the shape that was fidgeting under the multitude of sheets.

"Rachel ? Rachel, wake up."

She lowered the blankets, reached out toward her shoulder while hoping that the contact wouldn't scare the young woman. The blonde leaned toward her ear, murmuring soft, sweet words while keeping a hold on her shoulder.

She felt Rachel inspire sharply before opening two confused, frighten eyes which, when they met Quinn's, calmed down and moistened at once. The taller woman only stopped her caresses after being sure that she was alright, despite the jolt and her sudden awakening, and she stood up to get her a glass of water when a hand on her arm stopped her.

"Don't leave," she said hastily.

Quinn smiled in the darkness, put her hand on Rachel's and squeezed it with her fingers. "I'll be back in a minute."

Once in the kitchen, the Parisian girl sighed and leaned against the sink. She didn't know how to behave with the young woman in these moments, both personal and painful, when she was reliving past events that hadn't lost their horror. She seemed driven by hesitation in such hazardous situations. Should she let her some space so she would work alone on the difficulties she was having or, on the contrary, don't take her eyes off her, overpressure her?

She had no idea.

Upon coming back in the bedroom, Quinn made the brunette sit down and offered her the glass with fresh water.

"Thanks," she said, giving her back the container. The blonde, who sat by her side, was rubbing her back in slow, circular gestures with the tip of her fingers.

"You scared me," she whispered, concern still in her voice. "What happened ?"

"A nightmare," Rachel muttered. "Just a nightmare."

She didn't say more. Quinn added nothing, not wanting to rush the poor girl. But on the other side, she wanted to show her that she was here, at all times, even the most painful and unpleasant.

Rachel fell asleep a few minutes later, exhausted after so many emotions. Quinn watched her sleeping for a moment, inspire and exhale in a slow, regular rhythm until she also felt the call of the night, and she slipped under the covers while closing her eyes.

* * *

Time passed, and Quinn noticed little things that gave rhythm to her everyday life, like the fact that Rachel always woke up at daybreak and went to bed just after having dinner. The fact that she was spending long minutes, sometimes even more than an hour near the window in the living room didn't escape to her either ; Quinn often felt guilty that she couldn't show her around Paris, take her in a store so she could choose her clothes, or just roaming around the Rochechouart district and Montmartre.

Above all, she could continually hear her singing, from morning to night. The small brunette was humming every song on the radio, even the ones that she had never heard before. She was singing in a low voice, in French or in what Quinn supposed was Hebrew, while she was peeling vegetables in the kitchen or helping to do the dishes.

Her voice warmed her heart and her apartment once so dreary and austere. The blonde thought that she would try to hit upon some discs for Rachel, if she succeeded to find some.

Quinn had, unfortunately, the opportunity to put her medical skills into practice a few days later when Rachel fell ill. She had a feeling that it would happen because she didn't hear her singing for two days. On top of that, Quinn had woken up long before the brunette, who only made an appearance at eleven in the morning — which was more than curious.

The blonde immediately noticed a swelling on both sides of Rachel's neck, and before letting her eat her breakfast, she made her sit down on the couch to examine her.

The brown-haired girl didn't protest while she was looked at — worst, she was silent, which didn't reassure Quinn. She touched her forehead with the back of her hand, which was burning. When she had finished, she made her take deep breaths and cough, then she sighed bitterly.

"You have tonsillitis, Rachel," she said while touching her shoulder. "And a fever with that. You'll have to slow down on hot drinks, sugar, and milk. With any luck, you'll be cured in a week."

The small brunette leaned back on the couch, her shoulders slumping. Quinn smiled in a comforting way before going in the bathroom to retrieve some remedies that were more or less effective. It was much colder than at the beginning of winter, and dryer — it wasn't surprising that infections like tonsillitis were coming at this time of the year.

Fortunately, she didn't catch the flu.

The day seemed long and gloomy for the two women, Rachel was barely eating and wasn't doing much, and Quinn saddened to see the young woman in such a distress.

As usual, Rachel went to bed early, while the blonde lingered in the living room to finish some documents. She was bored a quarter of an hour later and decided to read a few pages of one of her favorite book.

She wasn't at the twentieth page that a movement caught her attention. Quinn looked up and saw a human form with brown hair, wrapped in a wool blanket dragging against the floor. She furrowed her brows, thinking that her state of health has gotten worse and that her body was not reacting to the medicine she gave her, but her worries were soon replaced by a smile when she saw Rachel pour herself a glass of water, drink it in one go before shuffling in small steps to the couch.

The smaller girl folded the blanket and looked for a comfortable position, then she leaned and put her head on Quinn's shoulder. Her breathing was a bit hoarse and difficult, but she was less feverish than in the morning.

"What are you reading ?" she muttered, exhausted, as everybody was in the first days of an inflammation.

The blonde smiled a little. "Some poems by Emily Dickinson. Do you want me to read you one ?"

Quinn felt Rachel nodding against her shoulder, and then she read the verses she had in front of her.

"The Mind lives on the Heart  
Like any Parasite —  
If that is full of Meat  
The Mind is fat.

But if the Heart omit  
Emaciate the Wit —  
The Aliment of it  
So absolute." (1355)

There was no sound for about a minute, then Rachel pronounced, in a sleepy voice: "I didn't understand a single thing."

Quinn giggled softly. "Maybe because you're a bit sick. I'll read it to you when you'll be cured, you will understand it better."

They stayed like this for a moment, Quinn reading some poems while Rachel was falling more deeply into sleep. She didn't want to let her sleep on such an uncomfortable couch, so the blonde woke her up long enough to lead her into the bedroom and put her under the covers. Rachel moved a little, found the less painful position for her throat before diving into sleep.

Quinn hadn't been long to join her, first making sure that a carafe was full of water and put on the bedside, then she put her pajamas on before slipping under the quilt, slipping in the same time a reassuring arm around the young woman's stomach.

Rachel moved a little, then coughed.

"You shouldn't stay so close to me," she sputtered in a congested voice. "I'm going to make you sick."

"Body heat," the blonde replied. "You have to be kept warm if you don't want your state to worsen. Also, my immune system is flawless. I risk nothing."

Rachel didn't reply. She simply grabbed the hand resting on her stomach, squeezed it between her shaking, frozen fingers.

Quinn smiled and blushed into the night. She thought that her idea of sharing a bed wasn't so bad, after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**You probably heard about last week's attacks in Paris. They were only miles away from where I live. It it so scary when it happens so close. I was completely saddened by the news when I woke up Saturday morning. That's sadly funny, during the time when I wrote this story in French, the attacks on Charlie Hebdo happened. It really is unfair. But I'm alive, Paris is alive and wounded and standing tall, and humanity is, and freedom is and will. That's all that matters. Paris, you survived countless times, you went through everything and you're still standing. Paris, my home, my love, I cannot express how much I love you and I care for you.**

* * *

Rachel had slept soundly. Her sore throat had worn her until she had almost no force to turn over in the bed.

She woke up when she felt the light of the sun hit the room through the window. Rachel coughed a little, then she frowned upon feeling a warm sensation on the abdomen and the back of her neck, which was probably not caused by the thin rays of the winter sun, weakened by the morning mist.

After lightly moving and stifling a coughing fit, the brunette looked down and noticed the alabaster arm draped on her waist, a foot that wasn't hers lost between her ankles. She could feel Quinn's regular, soothing breathing on her neck and her hair, causing her to feel a weird yet pleasant feeling.

It was at this moment that she realized that Quinn had never slept this close to her. She has always shown some form of respect, or decency, or privacy toward her, and let Rachel all the space that she needed, whether it was on the mattress or in the apartment.

Yet, upon feeling her body clinging almost shyly to hers under a single blanket, the small brunette thought that if the situation repeated itself, it wouldn't displease her.

The blonde had the reassuring smell of soap and plants — maybe sage or peppermint.

Rachel was holding Quinn's hand against her belly, caressing her knuckles with her fingertips, and thought about what the blonde had told her about herself. Actually, she didn't really know much about her. This woman could have lied about her occupations, on the way she was getting her money, on her potential relationships with German officers.

It was unlikely but probable. Nothing was forcing Quinn to tell her the truth, after all.

Still, she trusted her. It was not as if Rachel had many choices, but she felt that she could confide in the blonde — she has already handed her life, and after all, what did she have more valuable?

Quinn was saving her, every day. It was more than she would have thought a few years ago when she had to leave her home, her country, her family. And Quinn was truly caring about her, more than she had to. Rachel had been surprised at first, to see the blonde staying at home most of the time. She had believed that Quinn would do like the other people that had helped her hiding: she would be fed, she would have a place to sleep, and must flee if soldiers tracked her down or if some inhabitants were becoming too suspicious.

The young Parisian was different. Rachel hadn't the impression to be a burden anymore, some Jew to conceal, to whom people didn't talk except to tell her to clear out.

She wasn't that. It even looked like Quinn liked having her by her side. It was true that the latter wasn't very talkative, but her behavior was anything but hostile. She answered her questions and wasn't letting her cope alone with her illness, as she often had been every winter, in a cellar too humid or a dusty attic conducive to infections.

Sometimes, Quinn confided in her.

And helped her overcome her nightmares.

They had passed the stage where politeness was forced, and had slowly fallen in a stable relationship, which couldn't be assimilated to the link that usually joined a fugitive and the person hiding her.

It had been a long time since she hadn't felt this sensation of being appreciated. Somebody was caring for her and her health, and that was more than enough.

Rachel got out of her thoughts when she noticed that the sun rays weren't reaching her anymore. She smiled and thought that Quinn had a heavy sleep if she wasn't even bothered by the light falling on her face.

She noted for the first time that no alarm clock was programmed, no alarm was disturbing the morning tranquility, nothing was preventing her from savoring her awakening.

She abruptly had a coughing fit, and she suddenly remembered Quinn's closeness when she felt her arm strengthening its hold and her body stirring behind her.

"Is everything alright ?" the blonde said in a voice that was a bit hoarse.

Rachel smiled, even though Quinn couldn't see her. "Everything's alright. You can go back to sleep."

Deep down within her, the little brunette knew that she was right. Quinn was truly caring about her. Her goodwill wasn't to be queried anymore.

* * *

Quinn took care of Rachel during the week more than she usually did, if that was possible.

She was glad to have studied medicine, even if it was just for three years, and to have had a generous father that had been a nurse to teach her the basics of modern medicine. Without that, she couldn't have known how to deal with the smallest throat infection.

When she went to Sue's to ask for some of her most effective remedies (obviously, Quinn was more trusting this woman, whom she knew since forever than pharmacists that hoodwinked her and made her doubt), the blonde let the poor girl under her neighbors' care. She may as well be between good hands while she was away if her state worsened.

She hated to leave her alone, even for one hour, even though she must go out to refill her cupboards every ten days.

February was somber and dark, like every February. It was dry and much colder — temperatures were falling and getting closer to zero and below a bit more each day, which didn't do anything to help the health of the ill woman.

Even if Rachel didn't go out, the cold infiltrated the apartment without being annoyed by the paper-thin walls. Quinn was constantly boiling water so that the steam would reduce the cold sensation.

She also hoped that Rachel wouldn't catch pneumonia. It would be terrible for the small brunette.

Fortunately, it appeared that her ganglions were less marked and less swollen after a week of gargles, cataplasms, and plant infusions. The fever has dropped, and Rachel seemed completely out of danger a few days later, despite a slight cough that sometimes bothered her.

It didn't prevent Quinn from draping, every night since, an arm over waist to keep her warm.

At least, that was what she was telling herself.

Her self-consciousness that often blocked her in the middle of a conversation or a memory seemed to vanish in the comfort of the dark in the bedroom.

The dark-haired girl didn't appear disturbed by her behavior, by this almost stranger that put an arm on her waist and held her hand in the night without saying a thing. Rachel realized more and more every day how much she was waiting impatiently this unique, ephemeral moment of the day, that recurred night after night.

And even if Rachel was cured, Quinn didn't stop her acts, which soon became a new habit.

One somber and cold night, Rachel did a gesture for the first time toward the blonde. She felt her slipping stealthily under the wool blankets, as usual, and only let her some time to settle before turning in her direction and coming closer; she put her head on Quinn's shoulder while slipping an arm around her waist until no centimeter was separating them.

For a second, Rachel felt the body under hers stiffen and feared that she overdid something, but then Quinn rested her hand on her skull, and the small girl let out a relieved sigh that she didn't know she was holding.

They stayed like this for a moment, until Rachel decided, like every time, to break the silence.

"Tell me a story."

The blonde furrowed her brows, surprised by this weird request, before chuckling softly.

"A story ?" she asked, smiling. "You want me to get a book and read it to you ?"

"No, a story of yours. I mean, not something fictional or invented. A story about you, about your life."

Quinn froze, and the small girl quickly added: "Only if it doesn't bother you. You don't have to talk to me about yourself if you don't want to or if it's too much to ask."

Quinn wanted to, though. She trusted her. But something unknown still stopped her from confiding in Rachel, and she didn't really know why. However, she decided to leave out this fear which was tearing her between silence and evasion, and she tried to satisfy the request of the young woman.

"It's not too much to ask," she said almost in a whisper. "There's not much to say about me, in fact. I was born in a small village in Seine-et-Marne, not very known or even important. I have a sister, Frannie, who's four years older than me, but you already know that. We lived in a small house big enough for the four of us; my mother, my father, my sister and I. Our parents always looked after us, even if they weren't home often because of their jobs, but it wasn't a big deal. We were living a normal life, so to speak.

"Frannie took care of me when mom and dad couldn't. We were inseparable — we still are, in spite of the distance. She has been a bit more than just a sister, she was my model, and when she grew up she became a strong, confident, incredible woman. I try to resemble her, I guess," Quinn giggled.

"Did you live there for a long time ?" the brunette asked.

"Until I was seventeen. Then, Frannie and I left to go in Paris. We've met Sue there, who was a friend of mom, and she has housed us until we found a place to live in. That's how we found the both of us living in this tiny apartment."

She kept silent for a moment. Rachel wanted to ask why did they move out, but refrained from doing so, feeling that her question would probably be inappropriate if Quinn had deliberately skipped this passage. Instead, she asked:

"Why Paris ?"

"Everybody loves Paris," the blonde grinned. "I think that we wanted to live a bit of a dream, Fran and I, by landing in this unreal capital with only projects in our minds and wanting to visit everything. It still was a bit difficult to get used to the change, at first. I mean, I come from the country, and the countryside is infinitely different from an urban center as big as Paris, you know what I'm talking about." Rachel nodded against her shoulder. "At first, I was feeling a little overwhelmed upon seeing all those tall buildings and monuments at every street corner. It didn't look like anything I already knew ; I was used to small houses made of stones and to kilometers to run to find a store and to wooden paths, and here I was in a completely foreign place, made of great avenues, little-paved streets, concrete buildings with balconies and monuments gold and slate-covered. I was in awe. That's why I decided to stay here, even after the war began."

Quinn stopped her story at this instant, not wanting to revive memories still too fresh from the beginning of the war and Frannie's leave for remote destinations. She thought of the day when they had, for the first time, met Sue Sylvester, of the day when they rent this apartment, then of the day when her sister left the town, promised her to be back soon and that everything would be alright.

She thought of her first meeting with her neighbors, her meeting with Brittany, and her first encounter with a uniform of the Third Reich.

She also thought about what Rachel had told her about her own life, how she arrived in Paris without wanting it, with the sole purpose of fleeing cruelty and hiding so she could go on living. It was unfair. Added to all of this, the fact that she had two fathers — Quinn didn't really dare to ask her how was that possible, but it wasn't what mattered — the young woman must have endured countless pressures.

The body half lying on hers seemed heavier all of a sudden; looking down, Quinn saw that the brunette's eyes were shut, and her breathing had considerably slowed down. Her cold feet were tickling hers.

Even though she didn't want to disturb this vision so peaceful, Quinn extracted herself reluctantly from this embrace to go look for, groping for in the deep night, a pair of woolen socks that she kept in the back of her closet. She then put them at the feet of the brown-haired girl, too exhausted to wake up or to protest. The blonde knew that when she'll get up, the small woman would be happy to see that she hadn't two blocks of ice at the end of her legs.

Upon seeing her so calm, Quinn couldn't stop herself from grinning, while slipping under the sheets to take her place back beside the small brunette.

She smiled softly, barely daring to make a single movement for fear of waking her up. Rachel had, too, went through so many things, and yet she still managed to smile, to laugh, to communicate, to fall asleep. She went on living.

Quinn sighed while thinking that it was, in the end, thanks to her if Rachel had today a roof above her head. She would have blamed herself if the brunette had fled and if Sam hadn't found her this night. Their relationship had well changed since. Rachel wasn't scared anymore, despite a few nightmares that introduced in her mind and were revived from time to time.

What were they? It was hard to say. Friends, or at least, as much as an anarchist and a Jew could be in France in 1944. They simply were. They coexisted, in the world that had given in brutality, madness, and murder.

But they were. They were living — that was all that mattered in such moments.

What Quinn was sure of, was that they lived an agreeable routine where only a few obstacles were waiting for them, away from prying eyes, from war and incessant horrors.

However, this new, comfortable relationship that they had looked like the most romantic friendship Quinn had ever known.

* * *

Quinn went out of the little coin laundry in Trois-Frères street, with bags full of clean clothes in her hands, when she felt a weird impression.

It wasn't much, just a feeling that left her disoriented one second or two, then disappeared into thin air as if it had never happened.

She didn't pay attention to it and continued her way, humming the song Rachel was singing this morning while peeling vegetables for dinner. Unconsciously, she began to smile.

The road to her apartment seemed shorter than usual — maybe because she was looking forward to coming home, to see Rachel and bring her fresh clothes, to make dinner with her and fall asleep in her arms. Quinn had no idea why these thoughts delighted her so much. She was always living with Rachel, and yet she couldn't wait to meet her.

She stopped thinking about it after that, because, what was there to think about? There wasn't anything wrong with waiting impatiently the moment where she would see her roommate again. What more was there to say?

The young blonde turned in the street that led to her building, identical to those which surrounded it, and her good mood dissipated abruptly. Her smile disappeared from her face, and the same troubling foreboding haunted her again, even more powerfully than the first time.

Quinn slowed down, wanting to find the origin of those impressions that followed her when she suddenly understood why this feeling of apprehension had come to her in the first place.

In front of her building, three soldiers were coming out of the front door and in the nearly deserted street of this afternoon of February, their faces wearing the traditional grim air of the Nazis.

That was all it took for Quinn to feel all the oxygen leaving her lungs.

The three men went down the street, and the blonde could only follow them with her eyes, winded, until they disappeared at the corner of a store. It was only then that she acted, and that the most horrifying thought took shape, clear as crystal, in her mind.

Rachel. They must have found Rachel. They could have hurt her, or worse.

Without even realizing it, Quinn dropped her bags on the ground and ran toward her building.

Oh, how she hoped she was wrong!

She prayed a God in which she didn't believe anymore that the young woman was still alive, still in her apartment, in good health, and not a thousand kilometers away in a freight car or in a torture room.

The simple thought that Rachel had been abducted made her retch. She rushed upstairs, tears at the corner of her eyes, hoping with all her soul that she would find the small brunette waiting for her, as usual, sitting on the couch, a book in her hand, a song on the edge of her lips, a smile to greet her.

Quinn had the horrific thought that she would never see her innocent smile again, and it was almost too much to bear.

She nearly missed the last step leading to her floor, caught herself to the handrail, then pulled feverishly her keys out of the pocket of her jacket. She thought that she must have made another set of keys to give them to Rachel, if there was the need to run away, but it was too late to consider it.

Shaking from head to toe, the young woman finally managed to open the door, then she pushed it with a hesitant hand, making it creak and unveil an empty living room.

Quinn felt a sob crossing her throat.

There was no one in the living room. The windows were closed, no trace of breaking in or struggling was visible, and no young woman, brown-haired, Jewish, with a contagious smile, was here.

She held her tears long enough to go around the apartment, without even closing the front door, to check if Rachel had hidden in another room, before realizing that silence and emptiness were her sole companions.

Her legs quaking, the blonde collapsed in the middle of the living room and fell on her knees, her head in her hands. Salted tears began running down her cheeks when they couldn't be held back anymore.

Quinn had failed. She hadn't protected Rachel.

She didn't know why she attached so much importance to it. She was only a Jew, a poor woman that hid for years, and she only succeeded in delaying the inevitable for a few weeks. She shouldn't cry on her fate.

Yet, she couldn't stop herself. They had lived together for long months, they had learned to know each other, to trust each other, and at the moment where things seemed to be all good, Rachel had disappeared.

It was unfair, terribly unfair. Because she was happy, more than she ever had been with the small girl.

Quinn bit her knuckles while thinking bitterly that she should have paid more attention. She should have been sure of Rachel's safety instead of leaving her to clean her clothes or to buy food. Rachel was more important than that.

She didn't know how much time she spent prostrated on the same place, but the sun was already declining when she decided to get up.

Nothing seemed to have importance anymore. Upon looking around her, Quinn said to herself that there was one thing she could do before moping and wallowing in her misfortune for the rest of her life.

Her legs still shaking and her eyes prickling, the young woman came out of her apartment, and without even bothering with closing the door behind her, she went downstairs to inform Mercedes and Sam of her sad discovery. She went down the steps slowly, turning around at every step, as if Rachel was suddenly going to appear on her doorstep and smile at her and invite her inside to eat the meal she just cooked.

She was a bit more disappointed and angry at herself after every step.

When she arrived in front of her neighbors' front door, she knocked and waited for someone to open. Mercedes appeared, and her smile froze when she saw the look of despair painting the face and red eyes of her friend.

"Quinn? Honey, what happened to you ?"

Quinn looked down, shameful and feeling the tears coming back. She sniffled, then said in a monotonous voice: "I lost Rachel."

Mercedes seemed not to understand. "What are you talking about ?"

"She's not here anymore," she said, still seeing the empty apartment and the soldiers coming out of the building. "Rachel is not here."

Mercedes's eyes widened, then her face took an indefinable air. She took the blonde's hand, forcing her to look her in the eyes.

"Quinn... Rachel is here."

The sentence seemed to take an eternity before her brain understood it. Her eyes widened, her breathing sped up and she thought she was seconds ago from fainting after so many emotions. It was only at this instant that she thought of looking inside the apartment, and that she saw, sitting on the sofa, partly hidden by furniture and Mercedes, the most beautiful vision that she has ever seen.

"Rachel," she said in a broken voice, shattered by the emotion. She thought for a second that she was dreaming, but when the dark-haired girl looked in her direction, she knew she was real.

Without realizing it, Quinn walked into the apartment until she fell on her knees in front of Rachel, still sitting on the couch, then she collapsed for the umpteenth time, wrapping her arms around the young woman's waist and burying her face in her abdomen.

Rachel was here, facing her, and she wasn't imagining her. She was real, and in one piece, and safe.

Just thinking about it made the blonde feel tears running on her skin, and she squeezed harder the small brunette who, even though she didn't know what could have put Quinn in this state, was pulling her toward her while stroking her hair to try and calm her. Her shoulders were jerking, and Quinn tried to hold back the loud sobs coming in her throat without succeeding.

She had been so afraid, scared by a simple association of ideas which could have become reality, who had become a reality in her mind.

And yet, Rachel was here, still holding her, and she had no reason to be afraid anymore.

None of the women heard Sam discreetly slipping away from the living room to meet his girlfriend in the kitchen. Confused, he kept silent for a minute, watching the action that was playing a few meters from him in his house, before questioning Mercedes.

"What's happening? Is Quinn in trouble ?"

The young woman shook her head, watching the scene with a kind eye. She smiled softly.

"I think they found each other."

* * *

The rest of the day was a blur for the two residents of the third floor, who went back home as soon as the blonde could use her numb legs again. Quinn hadn't let Rachel out of her sight, and only after long and painful hours did her tears dry up.

The brown-haired girl had more or less understood what had happened to the young woman; at least, she knew enough to appreciate the fact that she had been sincerely shaken, and that she still was.

After crossing the threshold, Quinn had begun sobbing almost desperately while thinking about what her apartment could have been, and what it nearly had become, if Rachel had been taken away. Then the brunette had sat down beside her, had taken her in her arms and let her cry on her shoulder all evening, and even after.

Until the blonde dropped with exhaustion between the same arms that she liked so much and that she had nearly missed.

Lying against each other on the couch, Quinn yet couldn't resolve herself to close her eyes to find sleep, scared of waking up alone and having imagined these last hours. She wasn't sure she was able to stand such a great disappointment.

But Rachel was still here, facing her, encircling her with her thin arms and her intoxicating scent, murmuring that everything was alright, that she mustn't worry anymore.

Quinn wanted to believe it, more than anything else in the world, even if she knew that was false.

She had been more than careless by letting her alone for all those hours, and it had nearly cost her Rachel.

The blonde woman closed her eyes, trying to push back these thoughts that haunted her, before opening them again and putting her hand on the small Jew's cheek.

"I am so sorry, Rachel."

Two brown eyes looked at her strangely, almost shyly, before a soft voice reached her ears. "You didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't your fault, Quinn."

"Of course it is," she whispered. "If I hadn't left..."

"You couldn't have known. I should be the one apologizing."

They were speaking in a low voice as if they feared that a foreign entity could hear them and pull them apart. Upon seeing the surprise on Quinn's face, the brunette added quickly: "I shouldn't have scared you like that. I should have warned you before."

"It's still my fault, though," the blonde sighed. "I made a mistake. I won't leave anymore. I won't leave you."

Then, in a whisper and with her eyes closed, almost as if she was scared to pronounce those words, Quinn said: "I thought I had lost you."

Rachel felt her chest tighten painfully. How could she answer to this woman's deepest fears, who confided them as if she was ashamed and everything was her fault? However, she decided to act instead of orally answering, touching Quinn's jaw with the tips of her fingers, just below her ear. The blonde inspired sharply at the contact, and that's what pushed Rachel in making a last gesture to reassure her, to promise her that everything was alright and that everything would be, even if all of this was uncertain.

She came closer, softly, as much as her tiny place on the couch was allowing her, and put her lips on Quinn's for a moment. She thought she had forgotten to breathe. When she pulled back, the blonde still had her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open, and she could feel her warm breath on her skin.

Rachel took a deep breath, suddenly hesitant, upon seeing Quinn looking through her eyes, inquiring her. Then, her lips formed a thin smile.

They stayed in this uncomfortable position, lying one against the other until tiredness caught them and brought them into sleep. Just before falling into unconsciousness, Rachel felt Quinn wedge her head under her chin, letting out a sigh of contentment.

She was nearly sure that everything would be alright.


	9. Chapter 9

**A big thanks for all your feedback, follows and favorites. I like reading your reviews and know that you are enjoying the story and waiting for the next part.**

* * *

The night was rough for Quinn, to say the least. She was continuously seeing her empty apartment, swastikas on immaculate uniforms, and then she jerked awake, for fear of finding that her nightmares had become reality ; but every time she opened her eyes, she felt Rachel's presence, all around her, and her arms around her waist, and only then could she go back to sleep without fear.

She couldn't refrain from tightening her hold on the young girl as if she wasn't trusting anything except her touch to reassure her.

She definitely pulled out of sleep when she felt languid caresses on her back, through her shirt, so delicate that she thought she had imagined them.

She felt like years had passed since the last time Rachel and herself had slept together. But it had been hardly twenty-four hours, and so many events who appeared so close and so far away from her at the same time had happened.

Opening her eyes, Quinn saw the face encircled with brown hair that she had often observed until she knew its littlest details, when Rachel was falling asleep and that her features were only illuminated by the light of the moon or the street lamps.

The blonde briefly wondered if she had the right to watch her like this, when Rachel wasn't conscious or even, maybe, consenting, but she couldn't stop herself. She had been so close to losing her and she'll never do that again. She couldn't stop trying to memorize her face either, her thin features and the curve of her nose as if it was the last time that she had the opportunity to see the young woman.

Quinn felt tears under her eyelids when she imagined waking up alone, without a brown-haired head against her breastbone and a tiny body against hers.

When Rachel woke up and stretched a few minutes later, she was welcomed with a vision that she hoped she would never see again — even though she only saw it once, a few hours earlier — Quinn's face studded with tears.

She bit her lower lip while thinking that it was her own fault if the blonde was crying, and, carefully, lifted her arm to move aside a few blond strands from her face. The gesture seemed to pull Quinn out of her torpor because she slowly opened two green eyes, moist and tired, which found a bit of their sparkle back when they met their brown counterparts.

Rachel smiled, gently, despite the sadness and the pain that, she was sure of it, were painted on her face, and Quinn copied her shyly.

The brunette didn't dare move, afraid of troubling the young woman or breaking the moment by opening her mouth or acting stupidly. But it didn't stop the blonde from keeping on contemplating her, who was exploring her beauty with her gaze.

Then Quinn dared something — her, who was rarely doing the first step, by the lack of courage or simply by shame, she didn't really know herself.

She came closer to her face and left, without thinking too much, a kiss on her cheek. It lasted a couple of seconds before Quinn took her place back, eyes shut.

Not on the lips. Not somewhere else. She felt that she hadn't the right, or the strength to do so.

Even though she hadn't forgotten the place where Rachel had kissed her the day before, on this same couch.

Why didn't she dare kiss her on the mouth? She didn't know. Rachel had done it, yet. It would be exactly the same gesture. The only difference would be that Quinn would have initiated the kiss. But she couldn't take the liberty of doing so. That Rachel kissed her by gratitude or to ease her fears was something, but she could decently not allow herself an act that would have such big consequences.

She couldn't reveal her feelings to Rachel this way. It would be unfair. Disrespectful.

The young blonde reopened her eyelids after a minute had passed, getting out of her thoughts, and those two same eyes kept on looking at her insistently, kindly, oblivious from the torments which assailed her from all quarters.

It was better like that. Rachel mustn't know what was haunting Quinn, or that Quinn was eaten up with worry. More than anything, Quinn wanted to protect her, and if she also had to protect her from herself, then that was what she would do.

* * *

It had been the first time since a long time that Quinn did absolutely nothing in her day, literally. She hadn't found the strength to extract from Rachel's soothing embrace, nor the desire, and even though the young Jew eventually got up to use the bathroom and to cook, Quinn could only curl up on herself, still on this uncomfortable couch.

She was feeling incredibly guilty for having put Rachel's life in danger, for not having protected her enough.

Yet it was the reason why she had taken her in when she had seen her in the basement of the building; she had thought that she could offer a shelter to the young woman, and most of all, a safe shelter.

But she only had an apartment, a minuscule one, at the foot of the butte Montmartre and with a view of the Abbesses station — and even if the metro was deserted these times, she could have found a place more secure to spare them both flights, which could become true.

Quinn closed her eyes while tightening her hold on her knees, burying her face into her chest.

She knew from the beginning that this relationship would be complicated. Opening the door of her home to a Jew while the Nazis were all over and were staying for years in half of Europe, including the French capital, wad definitely not without consequences.

The time when the blonde was roaming and running the streets without looking behind her seemed far away as if it had only existed in dreamlike fantasies.

She vaguely wondered if Rachel could have, in Austria or somewhere else, ever meander in the alleys and boulevards of a town without feeling a constant threat around her.

That only thought brought back tears still fresh to her eyes, and she pressed her eyelids against her kneecaps to prevent them from flowing.

She already had lost too much time crying on events that didn't happen. She had to get out of her lethargy if she really wanted to help Rachel.

Quinn swung her legs on the floor before rubbing at her eyes while muffling a yawn. She thought about what she could do in her day because she didn't want to walk kilometers for a piece of bread and cross the path, again and again, of those uniforms that she hated so much.

She suddenly thought of her neighbors, and this idea didn't leave her for the rest of the day.

She must go and thank them. They may be had, unconsciously, saved Rachel from the clutches of brutality and torture, and she could never reward them enough for that.

And perhaps could she, in the same time, tell them the few changes arisen in her relationship with the beautiful Jew, even though she herself didn't know much on the subject.

She simply felt that it could help her to have somebody to talk to about it — especially that she had somebody to whom she could talk. She had never felt so much grateful to have someone to listen to her than in this moment.

Quinn took a deep breath to calm her nerves, decided to honor her resolution.

However, when Rachel came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, washed and wearing a dress falling on her ankles, Quinn was pacing in the living room, her hands in her pockets, sweat running down her forehead.

Quinn was certain that she would faint, or collapse from despair, or both.

She saw that Rachel was facing her, and gave her a look before speaking to her.

"I have to go and see Mercedes. I have something to tell her. First and foremost, don't hesitate to shout or struggle or stamp your feet so we can hear you if there is a problem. I'll come back as fast as possible, I won't let anybody touch you. I promise you."

Quinn's voice was authoritative, almost menacing, and Rachel didn't know if she should feel happy to be as protected or afraid by her frenetic worrying.

She knew (or rather, remembered just at this moment) that Quinn wasn't violent, and that she would never hurt her, and it was enough to reassure her.

Rachel came closer to the young woman, gently — she had never seen her moving this much — and hesitantly put her hand on her arm. The contact startled the blonde, who looked with embarrassment at the fingers that just had brushed her before sighing, then gazing down at the floor.

"Excuse me. I'm a little nervous." Quinn ran a hand through her hair while sighing heavily. "I could stay here," she said in a monotonous voice, almost without emotion. "Too bad about Mercedes, too bad about the clothes. If, in return, it means that you will be safe, it won't be a bad compromise."

The smaller one raised a brow at this.

"It's completely absurd, Quinn," Rachel replied. "It is out of the question that I become the reason why you cannot leave your apartment. It's ridiculous."

"I am the one who offered you to stay," the blonde answered calmly, "so I have to make sure that you're not in danger here."

Then, slowly, Quinn added, her cheeks reddening: "I won't be able to forgive myself if something happens to you."

Quinn hoped that Rachel would understand that her words didn't come from a selfish intention and that she would feel that she cared sincerely, deeply about her and her well-being. When a moment later, Rachel slipped her hand in hers and smiled at her, Quinn knew she understood.

Her inhibitions and her fears were perhaps preventing her from taking action, but she felt that everything would fix itself in good time. She would make sure of it.

She was so caught in her reflection that she only noticed afterward that Rachel had come closer, lifting her face with her thin fingers and watching her with an almost terrifying intensity, but terribly sweetly.

"Nothing will happen to me. Do what you have to do. You are not bound to stay locked in, and by the way, it won't save me if there's a... accident."

Quinn had forgotten how much she could be convincing. Moreover, the dark-haired girl was right. If soldiers ever decided to visit her apartment, she could do nothing about it. She took a deep breath and nodded absent-mindedly.

"Alright. I'm going to see her." Then, she let her concerned, attentive gaze lingers on the young woman. "Above all, be careful. Shout if there's the least problem. Lock the door behind me. I'll knock twice when I'll come back."

In a flash, the blonde came nearer to kiss Rachel's cheek, then went away a second later, refusing to see her reaction.

If she had turned around, she would have seen her holding her cheek, a shy, hopeful grin stretching her lips.

* * *

When the door opened on Mercedes' loving and caring face, Quinn broke down into tears again and collapsed in her neighbor's arms.

The young Caribbean woman quickly recovered, and slipped her arms around the blonde girl's trembling shoulders before pulling her toward her home, without saying a word.

She installed her neighbor in one of the two armchairs of the living room which surrounded the wooden table, then vanished for an instant in the kitchen to put the kettle on the gas. She watched a moment the steam, sighing.

To see Quinn in this state of uncontrollable distress, moreover for the second time in two days, caused her to feel an unpleasant emotion that she wanted to never experience again. But she knew well that her neighbor was going through a hard time, tougher than when she had come to install in Paris and she knew no one. Now, she had to take care of a Jewish survivor in addition to herself, and Mercedes knew that it would lead to having to be a lot more vigilant than usual.

Upon coming back in the living room, she put a cup of green tea in front of Quinn who, with reddened eyes, gave a faint smile before reaching weakly for her hot drink. Mercedes sat in front of her, holding the blonde's other hand in a firm, reassuring grip.

Quinn wasn't meeting her gaze, but she pronounced words that intrigued her as much as they worried her.

"I'm sorry," she said lowly, sniffling. "I didn't want to... I didn't come to cry on your shoulder, it's just that..."

"Don't worry," Mercedes cut her off with an appealing smile. "I understand that you feel the need to talk. Or that you don't feel the need to, for that matters. You know that you can visit me whenever you want, you are always welcome here."

Quinn smiled slightly. Mercedes had always been this sweet, patient woman, who inspired confidence and could heal the most severely wounded heart. From their first meetings — even when Sam was present —, they were those qualities that had softened Quinn to strangers and prompted her to keep in touch with her neighbors, that now had become her friends.

However, she didn't know how those same friends would take the new that she had become infatuated with her Jewish roommate, fugitive, and illegal citizen, whom the life was constantly threatened.

The hand on hers squeezed her knuckles, and she suddenly remembered the reasons why she came. Quinn took a deep breath, both for what she was going to say and to calm the frenetic beating of her heart.

"I came here to thank you, you and Sam, for what you've done for Rachel yesterday afternoon. I'm sorry for having panicked a little, I had just seen soldiers in front of the building and I lost my grip, and if you two hadn't been there, I don't know what she would have..."

"Breathe, sweetie, breathe. Everything's alright," the young woman said while squeezing the pale hand, and, going on once the blonde followed her advice: "It's natural to have invited Rachel at home. You don't have to thank us for that. But I didn't know that you had seen soldiers here, and if they had entered, I swear that they wouldn't have hurt a single hair on Rachel's head."

Quinn giggled, forgetting for a second the gravity of the subject to mentally bless the woman facing her and that had succeeded in lighting up her day.

Then the seriousness of the event fell again on her mind, heavy, indelible from her memory, and she feared that she would never get rid of these horrible images passing continuously before her eyes.

Looking up, she met Mercedes's gaze, calm and powerful at once, and it was enough to decide her.

"I didn't come only to thank you," she said in an abnormally serene voice, almost a whisper. "It's only... I don't really know how to explain myself."

"What is it ?"

"It's stupid, really, and maybe it doesn't mean a thing, after all. I shouldn't have bothered you for so little, I apologize for showing up unannounced..."

"Quinn."

Mercedes' determination in this simple name rooted the blonde to the spot. Her powerful voice had an intensity that left no room to protest. Quinn briefly caught her breath, easing her nerves at the same time, before saying in one breath the words that she dreaded to speak and which, nonetheless, caused her to feel a familiar and invigorating feeling in her chest.

"Rachel kissed me."

There they were. She couldn't turn around now. She had revealed to Mercedes this simple fact that had turned her mind upside down and revived a long forgotten head in between her lungs.

Now, Mercedes knew.

And she wasn't replying anything.

Her gaze was still upon the young woman, giving no clue away on what she was feeling about this new piece of information. Quinn suddenly took fright. Her cheeks flushing more and more under these inquiring eyes, she stuttered a few words and stood up, making her way toward the front door, when a brown hand caught her wrist.

"Quinn..." Her soft voice contrasted with the firm tone that she used a moment ago. The blonde was holding her breath, feeling unable to handle yet another rejection, when Mercedes surprised her by saying those words.

"You are in love with Rachel, aren't you ?"

She didn't know if it was a question or a statement; probably both. And yet, the truthfulness of this one and only sentence could have made her fall flat on her back if it wasn't for Mercedes' hold on her wrist.

Never a truth had come to her in a way so direct.

The realization was made quickly in her brain, too quickly, and Quinn only noticed her tears after Mercedes had dried them.

The next minutes passed without Quinn being aware of it, and she found herself (she didn't really know how) seated on the couch, two arms embracing her shoulders and stroking her hair, easing her fears. Mercedes wasn't saying a word, but the silence was all but awkward.

The young blonde woman only needed time, and her neighbor knew it.

Mercedes let her dry her tears against her shoulder until Quinn had enough strength to look up and talk again, but Mercedes cut her off before she could say anything.

"Don't apologize," she said softly. "You have no need to apologize."

The blonde stayed perplexed for a moment, before shrugging and sniffling.

"I should apologize. It was selfish from me to think that I could..."

"Don't even try to finish your sentence, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn opened wide eyes but obeyed to her friend. The latter took her hand between hers, squeezing it lovingly without breaking eye contact.

"I know that you're afraid," Mercedes continued in the softest tone. "You are afraid of what you might feel, of what you're feeling, and it's completely normal. I can't even begin to imagine all the horror you had to endure because you decided to accept your preferences toward women (here, Quinn hadn't even had the force to blush, even though she wanted to), and believe me when I say that I didn't meet often someone this brave. Honestly."

Her softened features were inspiring so much confidence that Quinn felt almost forced to believe her. Despite her, she felt her eyes moisten for the umpteenth time this day and quickly passed her sleeve on her face to hide them.

"But, honey, let me give you an advice. You doubt too much. You ask yourself too many questions. You try to analyze every reaction, every little gesture in everyday life, and it does not always do you any good. I'm going to ask you only one question, or two, and I want you to answer frankly. Okay ?"

Quinn nodded feebly, unable to refuse Mercedes anything when she was so sure of her.

"Is there something between Rachel and you ?" she asked in a soft, appeasing voice.

The blonde thought for a moment, then she shook her head, disconcerted, eyes looking into the distance.

"I don't know," she muttered. "I don't know. I only know that Rachel kissed me yesterday night, for the first time."

Mercedes waited for the rest. It never came. Lifting Quinn's chin so that she could see the expression on her face, she smiled, almost bashfully, before asking her: "But you want something to happen between you, don't you ?"

Quinn felt her cheeks redden, and it was all her neighbor needed.

Holding her moist hand, Mercedes added: "Trust yourself, for once. You're lucky to have under your roof a beautiful, intelligent, innocent girl, who's doing only good to you for months. I know that you care for her. And she cares for you, more than you can imagine."

Quinn let the words of the young woman enter her mind, reassure her, giving her this slight string of hope back onto which she didn't dare hold. She inspired feverishly. Perhaps that Mercedes was right, after all.

This slight hope that her confused feelings might be shared pushed her to mutter this last sentence in an almost childlike voice, frightened, containing both her fears and her unconfessed desires.

"I'd like her to be in love with me."

Mercedes had a look of deep indulgence painted on her face.

"Everybody is a bit in love with you, Quinn," she smiled. "Also, do not forget we're talking about Rachel. She does not do things by half."

The blonde smiled weakly. She secretly hoped that it was the case.

* * *

Something had changed in the atmosphere since that day. Quinn couldn't pin down what exactly.

They continued to live together in a comfortable silence, attending to their usual business and sometimes sharing shy smiles that were making her blush.

Rachel didn't allude to what happened a week before, and Quinn was more that grateful for that.

Of course, she couldn't forget these events that kept her awake at night and made her unconsciously tighten her arms on the small brunette's shoulders, needing to feel her close to erase the demoralizing thoughts swarming in her mind.

Quinn only wanted the life to go on as before, as long as it meant that Rachel was safe. She now stayed constantly in her apartment, didn't go out since her conversation with Mercedes, and it posed her no problem until her body's primary needs caught her — when, at the end of February, the cupboards were empty, as well as the fridge.

Reluctantly, she had to decide to go out to buy essential products — because, as much as Rachel's safety, her health was primordial.

The dark-haired girl instantly reassured her when she told her what her plans were for the afternoon, telling her that she was more than capable to stay two hours in a locked apartment.

"I assure you that I'll be fine," she encouraged her. "You cannot have food delivered here, it would be too suspicious."

Quinn half nodded, still anxious at the thought of leaving Rachel alone even for a few minutes.

"I'll be quick," she promised while coming closer to the young woman and squeezing her hand. "Don't hesitate to call Mercedes and Sam if there's the slightest problem. I'll be back soon."

The brunette smiled, not in the least worried, then she took Quinn in her arms to calm her, hugging her shoulders for a long moment, before stepping back and laying a languishing kiss at the corner of her lips.

"I'll wait for you."

Dazed, the Parisian nodded dumbly, then turned toward the front door which she closed behind her. She wasn't gone for five seconds that she entered the living room again, coming rapidly near Rachel to kiss her — on the mouth, this time — one, two, three times, then she barely stepped back to whisper, short-winded, an "I'll be back soon" against her mouth. Quinn didn't let her time to respond as she pressed her lips on hers one last time.

Rachel only realized after long moments had passed in the silence that Quinn was finally gone. She had felt the distress, the almost violent need in these too short kisses that she thought she could still savor.

Alone in the apartment, she smiled, shyly at first, before grinning widely.

Everything would be alright between them. She was persuaded.

* * *

 _Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts._

 _— Winston Churchill._


	10. Chapter 10

**A huge thanks to my beta, Hazel006, who's still bearing with me, and also to everyone that has favorited or followed or left a review, that's really wonderful. I hope that you're doing fine. Me? Not so much but, well, life goes on. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, we're halfway there.**

* * *

Quinn went down the avenues leading to the Opéra on her bicycle, choosing the road that would lead her to Sue as fast as possible. She tried to focus on the monotonous and regular noise of the bike chain, on her empty stomach and on the supplies that would soon be filling her cupboards and her belly, but she couldn't. The last minutes she spent with Rachel, just before she left her apartment to meet Sue Sylvester, were invariably coming back to her mind.

The blonde couldn't explain rationally her gesture.

Because of this little mistake, this slight imprudence, this negligence she did, she had probably put in peril what she forced herself to build with Rachel for months.

A healthy relationship, without ambiguity, based on a bit of trust and communication — no more, no less.

Except that she hadn't predicted the feelings that she had developed toward her, and it terrified her at the highest point.

Quinn hoped that Rachel didn't regard her as some kind of a depraved, an immoral and presumptuous debauched woman, looking to pervert her by any means. Mainly, she wished that the small brunette would not look at her as a woman that had welcomed her at her house with the aim to bend her to her wills and morals. She shuddered involuntarily when she imagined Rachel taking her poor luggage and slamming the door of the apartment to go away, where Quinn was not.

She shook her head to spare herself those improbable and monstrous scenarios. Despite this, Quinn knew that Rachel was trusting her — and even more than what she believed at first. She only had to finally trust her as well and to stop calling everything into question.

Mercedes had been right about that. She was thinking too much, she gave herself over to pointless reflections which had the only purpose of harming her, stagnating in her brain and paralyzing her neurons, and now wasn't really the time to become numb.

She still needed all of her attention and her vigilance so she won't be caught by some soldiers while she was getting food for her and Rachel. (This, she did not want it to happen. Because if she was arrested, Rachel would worry, and Quinn would be questioned, then put in jail, and she would never see the little brunette again, and she would be alone, and Rachel would be alone too, and all her efforts to preserve them from the surrounding horror, from this blaring, omnipresent terror, would be reduced to nothing. She couldn't allow herself such thing. Rachel deserved to live.)

Quinn arrived in front of Sue's shop, her mind still lost in the throes of twists and turns that seemed to never leave her alone. She attached her bike near the store, above which sat proudly the emblem announcing "Madame Sylvestre" in white letters on a red background. The blonde grinned when she read the somewhat frenchified name.

She entered the shop when she was sure she wasn't being followed, and, as every time, there was nobody inside. Sue often withdrew in the basement for various reasons, so Quinn went downstairs, making deliberately the steps creak under her shoes to warn the owner about her presence.

The young woman was barely halfway when she heard a strong voice resonate between the walls of the cellar.

"Go wait for me upstairs, Q. I'll be a minute."

Taken aback, the blonde vaguely nodded in the dark, and it was only at this instant that she noticed the unusual silence of the room. A sole, weak bulb was lit, giving a cold and disturbing impression which reverberated on the filled shelves.

Quinn went back upstairs, obeying, as every time, Sue Sylvester, and stayed a moment roaming between the shelving of the store. Sue had asked her to wait and she had a good reason to do so, she was certain of it.

The latter's timbre was heard again when she called Quinn from the basement, and the blonde was all but prepared to the sight waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

There was a man, slumped on the ground and against the wall, visibly unconscious. Quinn startled upon seeing his uniform, that left no room to doubt ; the cap that had fallen at his feet, the insignias, the riding boots ; all of this indicated that the soldier was a SS. A Nazi.

But her worry soon turned into incomprehension, and she frowned when she saw that the man's face was sporting a black eye, that his arms were behind his back, his wrists tied together. If she squinted, she could even see a few red burgundy stains scattering his cloth.

Quinn turned to Sue with the hope of obtaining an explanation. The tall woman was standing with her back against the wall, arms crossed, where she had a view on every corner of the room.

The younger woman didn't have to ask a single question, though, because Sue was already talking.

"He's not dead if you are wondering," she said in a perfectly calm voice. "Just knocked out for the night, perhaps longer."

Quinn raised a brow, waiting patiently for Sue to answer all of her silent questions.

"I discovered this guy numerous times roaming around my place and my store. I guess that he was trying to catch me red-handed for black market or possessing stolen goods, or I don't know what. As it turned out, I caught him before he caught me."

The younger one swallowed. "Is he a Nazi? Don't you fear that he will wake up and put you to jail, or worse ?"

"Don't worry about that," Sue replied with a smirk. "When he will wake up, he won't want to stay in the neighborhood anymore, believe me."

Quinn didn't answer, then shrugged. After all, Sue knew what she was doing. The old woman had lived through much worse. She shouldn't worry about her.

"I came to restock," Quinn went on when she took back the flow of her thoughts. "I don't have nothing anymore."

Madame Sylvester then seemed to realize the fact that her young mentee hadn't visited her for two weeks, which was quite unusual. Lifting a brow, she said, in a suspicious but kind tone:

"You didn't come this week."

"I know," Quinn said, looking down. "Excuse me, Sue. I had some problems to take care of."

"Nothing serious, I hope ?"

When Quinn gave no answer after a minute, Sue moved away from the wall, then walked toward the young woman, putting a firm and comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Is Rachel doing good ?"

Upon hearing her roommate's name, her heart clenched, but she nonetheless offered a nod as an answer.

"And you, are you doing good ?"

She didn't know what to respond to that question. Of course, she was in a good health, she had no money problems, so she should be doing good. But she didn't know if she was good. Quinn was going to give a banal lie, but upon meeting the serious gaze of Sue Sylvester, she couldn't bring herself to do so.

Sue had the right to know, after all. And she could tell true from false in Quinn's words. So Quinn told her everything, starting from the afternoon when she had seen soldiers coming out of her building, to her reunion, in a way, with the young Jewish girl. She let aside the part she had told Mercedes, the burgeoning and thunderous feelings she had for Rachel.

Sue listened to her quietly, without even moving, without her face showing some emotion. However, when Quinn had finished, Sue Sylvester got up without a word, went to retrieve two bags that she had hidden behind a shelf, and put them at the feet of the young woman.

"Everything is inside," she said softly. "Sugar, tea, meat, vegetables, everything that you usually take."

Quinn nodded. But when she plunged her hand in her pocket to pay her supplier, the latter stopped her.

"Keep your money, Q. You don't have to."

The little blonde agreed even though she was slightly surprised by Sue's radical tone. When Quinn was ready to leave the place to go back to her apartment and to the woman living in it, the older woman called her out.

"Take care of you, Quinn," she said with a small smile. "That's the most important thing. Life is too short to worry needlessly."

With a last nod in her direction, Sue got back into her den, and Quinn took her bike in the falling night.

* * *

It was nearly six in the evening when the young blonde was back at home, just before the night fell completely, with two bags in her arms. Rachel came to open the door — from now on, she was the only one to have the keys of the apartment, the blonde having insisted that she always had them — and Quinn put the bags in the kitchen, put the fresh products in the fridge, then, exhausted, she dragged her feet to the living room and let herself fall down on the couch.

She thought back about what she had spotted earlier in Sue's basement, this German soldier or officer who was knocked out and beat up, and the words that the tall woman had said to her a few years ago came to her mind.

"You will always have to defend yourself," she had told her at the dawn of the Occupation. "There are two ways to do that: you can use words, or you can use violence. You, Quinn, have the words. But don't forget that you sometimes have to resort to the second option if the first isn't enough."

Quinn has never really been violent, but she had understood what Sue had meant back then. The soldiers would be merciless if they discovered Sue Sylvester's true activities, and the existence of the newspaper which Brittany, Quinn, and her neighbors were contributing to.

And if they discovered that she was concealing a Jew.

The blonde sighed, seeking Rachel with her gaze, but her eyes didn't get further than the phonograph.

At this moment, she realized that a disc was on the turntable, and she then only noticed the sweet melody escaping from it.

She closed her eyes a second and let herself be lulled by the notes of the Sixth Symphony of Beethoven, one of the numerous classical records that had previously belonged to her parents, and her fingers tapped idly her thigh, following the rhythm.

The second movement was coming to its end when she felt something moving at her left, and Quinn opened her eyes to see Rachel sitting almost shyly on the couch.

She didn't look afraid, or disgusted, which was what Quinn dreaded the most since she had kissed her without warning. The dark-haired girl seemed rather calm, except for her fingers that were repetitively opening and closing the book she was holding.

The blonde smiled while thinking at the Rachel she had first known, bashful and hardly daring to move or talk, and now, the fact that the girl was feeling comfortable enough in her apartment to borrow her some things without asking for her permission was filling her with an unqualifiable heat.

Quinn swallowed, before asking her:

"What are you reading ?"

The small brunette grinned, before showing her the front cover of the book. _Rebecca_ was written on half the page, below which was displayed a reproduction of a photography in black and white of Joan Fontaine, who had played the leading part in the Alfred Hitchcock's movie. Quinn had seen the movie when it came out in France, even though few theaters had scheduled it, and she had then looked for the book from which it was inspired.

Rachel's voice pulled her out of her thoughts yet again.

"I didn't know that you liked Beethoven."

Quinn shrugged lightly. "My parents were always listening to classical music," she smiled. "Beethoven, Bach, Vivaldi, Brahms, Wagner. I grew up with their works, and I still enjoy listening to them. Especially Beethoven. I think that it's the first thing I bought when I got here — a phonograph so that Frannie and I could listen to the discs we had brought with us. We often went to see musicians playing symphonies in theaters."

Rachel listened to her carefully, like every time the blonde was talking to her, but also with something more, an insistent glance or a hint of a smile, Quinn didn't really know what, but it made her blush up to her ears. The brunette didn't seem to notice this sudden flush (or at least, she didn't talk about it) and let for a moment her eyes bore into Quinn's, listening to the music that was still playing in the room, before resuming the reading of her book.

* * *

The blonde had forgotten how good it was to have her stomach full. She had never thought that she could miss that much a need so primary, so simple, so stupid that eating.

She had a slight thought for the thousands, the millions of people who, as Rachel had been one day, didn't have this privilege, people who were forbidden to even consume meat, and Quinn felt a little shameful when she thought of the half-ham that Sue had put in her bag even though meat was rare nowadays, food of preference of an army which requisitioned everything she considered good — or rare — for its men.

As every evening, Quinn let Rachel use the bathroom first while she finished the reading of some documents. She then slipped under the lukewarm trickle of water of the shower, before putting her pajamas on and coming back into the bedroom, where the young girl was already under the blankets.

Without a word, the blonde came closer to the bed and took a pillow, put it under her arm before turning around toward the living room.

Rachel's surprised voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Where are you going ?"

Quinn turned around, her eyebrow raised. She had thought that it was obvious. Rachel wouldn't want her in her bed after all the things that had happened between them. A bit incredulous, she simply answered that she was going to sleep on the couch.

In a split second, she saw the short brunette's face change and, more than surprised, she seemed indignant by her decision.

"Why? There's always room for you here."

When the taller woman didn't reply, her cheeks reddening and with shifty eyes, Rachel felt a weight crushing her shoulders.

"Is it... is it because of me ?"

Quinn would never have thought of that. She looked up and, skeptical, shook her head without adding anything.

"You can tell me if I did something wrong," Rachel continued in a shaky voice. "Or if you want me to go. You have been really generous when you invited me at your home, but I understand that if I bother you by staying here, I can..."

"Rachel, no," she said. "I don't want you to leave. How can you think of that ?"

The brown-haired girl shrugged, pointing the pillow that Quinn had under her arm. The blonde closed her eyes while thinking about what explanation she could give her but, finding nothing suitable, sighed weakly.

"It's not because of you," she said softly. "I want you to stay. It's just..." Quinn drew a long breath, hoping to find the strength to finish her sentence. "I thought that you would be uncomfortable to sleep in the same bed that me after all that happened. After I kissed you."

"I kissed you, too," the brunette answered on the same tone.

Quinn knew it, of course. She remembered it too well. But she also knew that Rachel did it for totally different reasons that hers. The dark-haired woman was still looking at her with insistence, probing her with her brown eyes, which seemed black in the half-darkness of the room.

"What's wrong ?"

"When you kissed me," Quinn almost murmured, "you did it by gratitude, didn't you ?"

Rachel's face was unfathomable for long seconds, maybe minutes, and Quinn felt herself more and more losing control, seeing her like that. She briefly closed her eyes, waiting for the redoubted impact that would stun her for months. What was she hoping? That Rachel would fall on her knees before her, that she would be head over heels for her, that she would treat her like a messiah?

No. She couldn't decently imagine that.

"It was only gratitude, then," Quinn whispered when the other didn't answer. "Nothing else."

"It wasn't."

"So, what was it? Pity ?"

Rachel looked up so quickly, wide-eyed, that the blonde took fright. She exclaimed: "Of course not! I don't take pity on you. Why would you even think that ?"

"How can you be sure that you don't feel pity for me ?"

"I know it, that's all," the brunette replied in a softer voice, slightly wavering. "I could never take pity on you."

In the silence almost religious that followed, Rachel could hear a harsh, fast breathing, accompanied with a sniffling that would have been inaudible if she hadn't been giving all her attention to the young woman. She felt her eyes moistening when she saw that Quinn had huddled up, sat down on the floor, in the corner of the room that was the furthest from the bed.

Her heart tightened while she thought that she was the cause of the worries of the woman that had taken her in.

"Quinn," she said in a broken voice.

"Why ?" she muttered. "Why don't you take pity on me ?"

"It is quite simply impossible," Rachel said hastily. "You're the strongest, bravest person I've ever met, and pity would never be part of the feelings that I have for you."

"But why, Rachel? Why don't you feel that way ?"

She was beginning to lose the meaning of the conversation, but the small Jew still found the force to ask, uncertain: "Why do you insist so much on this point ?"

"Because you should feel pity !"

This time, Quinn had yelled her answer, tangled in tears and sadness more than anger. And Rachel was beginning to see the core of the problem, what terrified her lodger for days, perhaps even longer.

"You should," the young woman continued, leaning her head on her knees. "You should take pity on me. I don't deserve better than that. No compassion, no gratitude. No love, friendship or even trust. It's too much."

Rachel slowly got up from the bed, coming closer from where the blonde had curled up with soft steps as to not scare her.

"Why do you think that ?" she said, murmuring. The reply came instantly and compressed a little more Rachel's chest.

"I am only a woman. Nothing more. A lesbian sitting around and doing nothing with her life, that can't even control her feelings or her relationships." At this instant, she looked up, laying her gaze in the brunette that was only two meters away. "I can only offer you a temporary shelter, and I can't even guarantee your protection. I put you in danger in spite of myself. I have nothing, Rachel. I am nothing."

With tears in her eyes, Rachel didn't hesitate before kneeling close to Quinn, putting her hand on the blonde's which were covering her knees.

"You have me, Quinn. I know that it's hard, everything is nowadays, but I don't want you to think things like that. You know that it's wrong. You saved me, since the day that you found me, and I couldn't have dreamt of a better place to stay in. Trust me, everything will get better. I need you to trust me."

It was maybe the hopeless note that her voice had taken that made Quinn decide to lift her head, passing in vain the sleeve of her shirt on her face to wipe every trace of wetness. Or it was maybe the comforting softness of the hand holding hers, squeezing it with force and caution, as to ask her to believe in her words.

She didn't know if she had the strength to do so. Everything was falling apart around her. The news from the front weren't very good, the streets were swarming with black swastikas on red backgrounds, Gestapo, and soldiers, with collaborators, denunciations and illegalities; and yet there was Rachel, who stayed with during all these time, nearly begging her not to abandon her. Begging her to let her love her.

Quinn thought that she hadn't had to take such a difficult decision in her life since a long time.

An hour later, after two glasses of water and a cup of tea that eased her fears for a moment, the young blonde found herself lying under the covers of her own bed while Rachel was shutting the blackout curtains and turning off the lights of the apartment.

She was nonetheless surprised when she felt the small Jew slipping under the sheets, adjusting her body so she could wrap an arm around Quinn and rest her head on her sternum.

A slight smile appeared on her lips. At least, Rachel didn't seem to be mad at her, despite her foolish behavior earlier this evening.

"Is everything alright ?" the brunette asked as the silence engulfed them.

The nights were ridiculously quiet in Paris, another consequence of the arrival of the German soldiers in the capital, which allowed to hear every sound in the apartment. Quinn could feel Rachel's regular, soothing breathing against her chest, and she smiled as her hand came to stroke soft brown hair.

"Everything's alright," she whispered. "I am sorry for earlier."

"Don't worry about it," the brunette said while lifting her head to look her in the eyes in the darkness.

"And you, are you alright ?"

Rachel smiled, stretched her neck to plant a kiss on Quinn's cheek, before stepping back just enough to be able to feel her breath on her.

"I couldn't be better. I am here, I am with you, I am secure. I feel important. I feel..."

She had nearly added that she felt loved but held back at the last moment. However, Quinn seemed to understand what she had wanted to say, and smiled shyly, sincerely. As she was softly slipping toward sleep, she heard Rachel murmur :

"I have never been happier than I am now."

* * *

 _I will seize fate by the throat; it shall certainly never wholly overcome me._

 _— Ludwig van Beethoven._


	11. Chapter 11

**Are you still here ? It seems so. Thanks for your words of encouragement. Also, I now have more followers and favorites than on the original story. Haha.**

* * *

Quinn woke up in a feeling of heat, of beatitude almost complete that immediately put her in a good mood. She had a nearly perfect night's sleep, with Rachel who had been here during the night, in her arms, and who didn't give her grief for her doubts, the ones Quinn had expressed earlier in the evening.

She felt like she was losing ground, that she was falling a bit more, without being able to do anything against it, in this storm of sensations and palpitations and shortness of breath and goosebumps, and everything that Rachel was provoking her. More than to resign herself to it, she felt ready to accept it.

Quinn grinned against her pillow while snuggling a little more, letting out a sigh of contentment.

She found a strange comfort in the fact that the pillow had absorbed her smell and Rachel's, offering the combination of both to her nostrils.

In the darkness caused by the drawn curtains, the blonde couldn't tell if the sun was already high in the sky, but guessed that it should be pretty late in the morning since she had become accustomed to staying in bed long after being awake.

Quinn gave in to one of those few moments that filled her with an endless serenity, enjoying the warmth that the bed and the blankets dispensed, while trying to etch this sweet morning on her memory — because she knew that once out of bed, the reality of the outside world would catch her, would cross her windows and her curtains to infiltrate her apartment and take, off Rachel and herself, a bit of the innocent naivety that seemed to live with them for weeks.

It was at this moment that Quinn launched her arm across the mattress, expecting to collide with her roommate's body (she didn't dare define her by a stronger word, more personal and intimate), but she only met still lukewarm sheets.

She didn't worry, though. Rachel was an early bird, and she was probably up doing a thousand things already.

Nonetheless, the blonde felt a slight disappointment knowing that she was alone in her bedroom. She would have liked, and perhaps was it selfish, waking up feeling Rachel's body against hers, her hands giving her tender caresses to pull her out of sleep, her mouth kissing her temple or her hair or, she dreamt without daring it too much, her lips, while murmuring an affectionate "good morning" in her ear.

Quinn sighed. She didn't have to feel down when thinking about those mornings that could probably happen one day or the other. After all, there was a food chance that Rachel would continue to live with her for a long time if the war didn't show signs of abating.

The young woman relaxed a few more minutes, attending to unreal and oneiric reflections when the door of her room opened on a small brunette with a huge smile, carrying a full tray. She was wearing one of Quinn's many dresses, midnight blue colored, with short sleeves and falling just below her knees.

The smile instantly came back to her. Unlike the first days of their cohabitation, when the dark-haired girl was constantly embarrassed and uncomfortable, afraid to touch the littlest furniture, Rachel seemed in her element as if she had always lived here.

Quinn grinned dreamily, then chuckled as the brunette put the tray down on the bedside table.

"You look like a housewife."

The girl looked at her strangely, before laughing and shaking her head.

"I hope that it's a compliment," Rachel replied with a contagious smile and red cheeks.

While sitting up against the headboard, Quinn watched the small Jew, the breakfast that she had set — only for her, she thought with some intoxication —, and she wondered for a moment if she could ever go back to her previous life, when she was living alone and wasn't faced head on with the cruelty of war and when she hadn't met a young Jewish woman yet, on the run and looking for a refuge.

They had went such a long way together that Quinn couldn't even think about letting her go.

"It is," Quinn said while Rachel was opening the thick dark curtains, letting the sunlight illuminate the room.

Then, as Rachel was carefully putting the tray on the bedspread, on the blonde's legs, the latter one asked, in a curious, almost teasing tone: "And why do I get all of this ?"

The dark-haired girl smiled and replied in the same tone.

"Haven't I simply got the right to cook for the woman that gives me a roof for months ?"

Quinn shrugged and blushed in the same time, a corner of her mouth lifting up. She hoped to see more often this aspect of Rachel, this carefree, happy side, this woman that wasn't thinking continually about war and the dangers she exposed herself to — that they both exposed themselves to.

The blonde moved a bit to the side, patting at her left to exhort her to come near her. The smaller one smiled from ear to ear, before complying, slipping her legs under the sheets and settling in a similar position that Quinn's, hip against hip.

Quinn let out a sigh of contentment when Rachel put her head on her shoulder. She had missed her closeness. She took a hungry look at the food on the tray on her legs; bread, butter, some tea and an ersatz of jam. A true feast nowadays. She felt herself already salivating. Quinn searched for the petite brunette's hand, that she squeezed, before asking her with the same teasing voice:

"What did I do to deserve this sumptuous meal ?"

"So many things," Rachel answered while shrugging. "You gave me a chance to live, to begin with. The right to live."

The young Parisian vaguely shook her head, slightly moving aside so she could look the brown-haired girl in the eye. The latter smiled, without a hint of sadness, before planting a chaste kiss on her mouth. Quinn kept her eyelids shut for fear of having imagined the last seconds, but when she felt Rachel's fingers, light as air, stroking her flushed cheeks, she slowly opened them and saw the young woman looking at her with such intensity that she wondered for a moment how could she have doubted Rachel's feelings for her.

Of course not, Rachel wasn't feeling only gratitude. And absolutely no pity.

She had been stupid to think that.

She was nearly certain that the young Jew could love her. She almost dared hope for it.

* * *

Three knocks on the front door an afternoon startled the two young women.

Quinn hadn't been visited a single time these last two weeks; for the first time she had focused on herself and on her emotions, as well as the brunette sharing her apartment.

The taller one went to open the door when she recognized the rhythm the knocks did and was suddenly attacked by a blond storm throwing herself into her arms.

"Quinn! I am so happy to see you !"

Quinn laughed heartily seeing this enthusiasm that only Brittany could display, hugging her and kissing her on both cheeks. She felt like it had been an eternity since they had the last saw each other.

"Oh, Rachel !" the tall blonde said with the same fondness when she saw the small Jew, sitting on the couch. Then, jogging toward her, she exclaimed: "I missed you! It's been so long since I saw you !"

Brittany imposed her the same treatment, hugging her until they couldn't breathe. Rachel looked at Quinn, incomprehension painted on her face, but Quinn gave her a look as powerless as amused above her shoulder. Brittany stepped back from the brunette but kept her hold on her shoulders, looked her up and down, deep in thought, which made Rachel slightly uncomfortable. Finally, she smiled, before speaking to Quinn.

"She seems to have put on weight," she said cheerfully. "I'm glad to know that you feed her right." Then she said very low, to Rachel: "It seems that you've met the right person."

Brittany did a knowing wink that made her blush to her ears, but Quinn didn't let Rachel time to be embarrassed because she swiftly cleared her throat.

"Tell me, did you want something, Britt? You might have some documents for me, have you ?"

"Oh, of course !" she answered happily while bringing a batch of pages out of her bag. "Some of them are from my cousin, I added them with mine."

Quinn took the papers from the other blonde's hand, flipping through them absent-mindedly before putting them in her desk drawer, near the radio set, for safety. These last few days, she had neglected this activity, letting the writing and publishing to Sam and Sue, but she promised herself to come back to it as soon as possible.

Turning toward the middle of the living room, she saw that her two friends were in a deep conversation, Brittany doing large gestures with her hands while Rachel was carefully listening to her, grinning and obviously caught by what the blonde was saying.

Quinn couldn't help but smile, happy that they were getting along so well, but also that Rachel had someone to whom she could talk — except herself —, her who couldn't go outside and meet new people, or settle at the terrace of a café with Sam, or even go to the theaters to see Billy Wilder's last movie, Humphrey Bogart or Bette Davis.

She then heard herself asking, without thinking about it, if Brittany would like to stay for tea or even for dinner.

"It would be a pleasure," Brittany replied while smiling softly, "but I have things to do tonight. Another time ?"

Quinn nodded, inwardly planning their future meal and thinking that she would have to inform the tall blonde of the last events of her relationship with Rachel.

She stopped thinking to wonder if she had the right to do so. After all, she and Rachel hadn't even talked about their relation. Of course, they had kissed, and it was obvious that they had more than platonic feelings for each other, but it didn't mean that the world had suddenly become simple and easy for them.

Distractedly shaking her head, Quinn promised herself to think about it later and to talk about it to Brittany only after she got everything clear with her roommate.

* * *

Brittany left a bit later, leaving them alone once more, and nobody visited them for a week.

That was fine about Quinn; naturally, a part of her would like to have visitors every day, for the only reason that she feared that Rachel felt too lonely, spending her days cooking in the kitchen, with a book, or by the window. She had often wanted to ask her neighbors to come and share a moment of their day.

However, Rachel didn't seem unhappy to have only the blonde to talk to. When one day Quinn told her that she was worrying about her not being able to go out or to socialize, the brunette cut her off, replying that she was okay with the actual arrangement.

Quinn tried not to think about it anymore, but she couldn't help feeling a pinch of culpability from time to time.

Even though she had undoubtedly saved her from German hands, from death and perpetual wandering, she also had cut her from every kind of human relationships and meetings that she could have done if she still was in the street.

In spite of this, the blonde couldn't regret her choice. She had given her a roof, she was sharing her bed and her food, and it was worth more than anything.

And there was also Mercedes, Sam, and Brittany, who, even if she didn't see them as often as she wanted to, were available at any moment of the day.

She knew that all of this was enough. It wasn't the number of people she knew that would make Rachel feel less lonely. By the way, nothing was saying that Rachel wasn't feeling well. Quinn would know it, she was persuaded.

The two young woman continued their daily business as usual. Rachel would wake up early, cook lunch, sing softly, hum the tunes from the radio, sometimes look through the window, help to make dinner, wash, and go to bed. Quinn would wake up, eat, read, cook lunch and dinner, read again, let herself be lulled by the brunette's sweet voice, write and correct some documents, mend the clothes that were falling into pieces, and she would join Rachel in her bed.

Sometimes, too, they kissed, whether it be on the mouth, the cheek, the temple or the shoulder, when they felt the need more than the desire to do so, and neither of them said anything about it.

It seemed natural, less forced than honest, and it was all that matters.

They hadn't chosen a term to brand their relation — to say the truth, they hadn't even talked about it. Quinn felt, and knew that she soon would have to talk to Rachel about it, but for now, she was simply happy to live so peacefully with the woman who set ablaze her senses in one look.

Quinn had wanted to talk about it with her, had prepared herself to this famous discussion with Rachel, but every time she felt that the moment was uncalled-for, that the subject would appear out of the blue.

It was a night of the middle of a cold and dry March, that encouraged the blonde to question Rachel about it.

She couldn't really stop herself; as she got into in bed, the small Jew had instantly forgotten her fetal position to nestle against Quinn's back, draping an arm and a leg over her waist and pressing her forehead on the nape of her neck. Quinn let out a quivering sigh at her contact. She didn't know how she could have fought against her closeness and her warmth since all, this time, she spent near her.

But she had to know where they stood in their relationship. How Rachel was seeing it. What Rachel was feeling? It was torturing her to live in the shadow when the answer was maybe within reach.

Slightly turning her head, Quinn took the brunette's hand and, uncertain, whispered her name.

"Yes, Quinn ?"

"Do you..." she began but stopped to take a deep breath before continuing. "You do know that I am in love with you, right ?"

As a reply, the hand that was in hers squeezed her fingers. She was afraid to have overstepped the bounds and got close to a sensitive topic when the brown-haired girl didn't answer right away.

"I know," Rachel said after a beat.

"And it doesn't scare you ?"

"No," she quickly responded. "Why should it scare me ?"

Quinn shrugged, unsure about the way she should talk about her worries and insecurities.

"I am a woman," she said. "You are a woman. We're living together. We could have much trouble if someone were to discover it, no matter what the nature of our relationship is."

At this instant, Quinn felt the brunette moving aside, and she then thought that what she dreaded the most had finally happened. Rachel was running away from her. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears that threatened to flow on her cheeks but opened them right away when she felt Rachel's hand pushing on her shoulder so that she would lie on her back. The small Jew was leaning on her arm, her hand on the mattress, her legs stretched out against Quinn's.

She didn't say a single word for a long moment, only watching her in the dark with a look that Quinn would have called serious.

"We already could be in a lot of troubles, Quinn. Not only because we're two women. I am Jewish, I live here illegally, and the only people that are aware of my existence are protecting me. You're doing everything to protect me. Moreover, you write articles for the Resistance. We risk a lot of things," she said while shrugging, "so why should we worry even more ?"

The blonde had no answer to give her. She dragged on in the chocolate eyes, in the face above her, finding the comfort that she had looked for years when she had had doubts about the choices she had to make, that were going to define the rest of her life. Were the risks that she was taking when writing those articles and hiding this Jewish woman worth putting her life in danger every second?

She briefly shut her eyes — of course that it was worth it. She couldn't imagine a scenario in which she would have let Rachel in this insalubrious cellar where the rats would have been her only company or one in which she would have denounced her.

Finally, Quinn said, in a whispered voice: "I can't help being afraid. I am afraid of everything that could happen if I do what I want to do."

"Terrifying and unfair things will always happen," Rachel said with a small smile. "Especially now that a megalomaniac madman is in power."

It made Quinn laugh softly, even though the subject wasn't funny at all. She understood where the brunette was getting at.

"In spite of this," she went on, "we can't indulge in madness or suppositions. A lot of bad things could happen to us, but they also could not happen. We never know what tomorrow may bring."

"How can you react so calmly? I mean, we could lose everything, starting with our freedom. You said it yourself, you don't know what could happen to us."

Rachel smiled, then she took Quinn's hand and brought it at her lips, kissed her knuckles before tangling their fingers together in a mixture of pale and tanned skin.

"I am with you. I know that you will never hurt me. I know that I am safe in this apartment, and it doesn't matter if I can't get out. I know that I love you, and I know that you love me too. That's all that matters for me."

Quinn kept silent for a moment, then she leaned with alacrity to kiss Rachel. The brunette immediately answered to the kiss, moving her body until it molded entirely Quinn's shape, sliding her lips against hers. She felt one of the blonde's hand making its way on her back to tangle in her hair while the other one was still holding hers.

Quinn thought for a moment, as she rested her hand between Rachel's shoulder blades through the fabric of her pajama, that the younger woman had put on a bit of weight, feeling her supple skin covering her formerly prominent bones, and she sighed in the kiss.

Perhaps she could help her. She could give her a lot more than a shelter and food, she was persuaded of it.

* * *

Rachel woke up at the crack of dawn, as she usually did, with a sigh of satisfaction while remembering the events of the day before.

Only she decided not to get up right away, choosing to relax in Quinn's arms and enjoy this moment of pure tranquillity.

She felt the blonde cuddle up a bit more against her, and Rachel looked up to check that she was still asleep. Upon seeing Quinn so peaceful, a light smile floating on her face, she thought wistfully that it was maybe the only moment of the day when Quinn wasn't worrying, enjoying what was granted to her without thinking about tomorrow.

The dark-haired woman shyly raised her hand, moving aside a few blonde strands from her face, still amazed at the beauty before her.

Rachel had first thought of Quinn as a Greek goddess, untouchable and immortal, that had more or less all the answers to all of her questions. However, time passed and she realized that it wasn't the case at all.

Sure, Quinn looked like a movie star, a Hollywood classic beauty, an actress like on the posters that she had seen in her youth at the entrance of the theaters. Quinn reminded her of Greta Garbo's ethereal grace, Katharine Hepburn's smooth elegance, with a charm that left her speechless.

But, like everybody, Quinn had her own insecurities, which were only making her more beautiful to Rachel. They made her human, alive; and the awkwardness that she had first felt in her presence had gradually vanished to give way to a boundless affection, an absolute confidence which, little by little, had evolved into an inexpressible love for the blonde.

Rachel sighed weakly while snuggling a bit more against the blonde's warm body, putting her head under her chin and kissing the white skin of her neck, just above her shirt.

She dared think about the mornings that would follow, about the tomorrows and the months that would pass, while she could stay beside Quinn, surrounded by her arms or sitting next to her or simply watching her, and she briefly wondered if that war was going to last a long time.

She saw, in the first lights of the day, the crucifix shining around the blonde's neck, like a light at the end of the tunnel.

Rachel smiled softly, touching the small silver cross with the tip of her fingers. Quinn might be her light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

 _...And never to surrender ourselves to servitude and shame, whatever the cost and the agony may be._

 _— Winston Churchill._


	12. Chapter 12

**Happy holidays everyone, I hope you're doing well! It's a bit hard for me to post every week because of my new job, but I'll try to do it anyway. Thanks for your reviews, as always, don't hesitate to tell me your thoughts.**

* * *

April came way too soon, the beginning of the warm days with it, and Quinn noted with feelings torn between bitterness and joy that it had been more than seven months that Rachel lived in here. She felt like she had just met her the day before, but also like she had always known her, as if she had been an old friend who came on holiday in the region.

It didn't matter, in fact, as long as Rachel was here.

She now only went out into the building hallway, every two or three days, to get her mail and gaze at the paved street, only to check that no patrol or soldier took a particular interest in this building.

Her nerves were each time put a bit more at ease when she only saw simple passersby again and again, without stopping more than a few seconds, and Quinn sighed in relief because it meant that the Jew hidden in her apartment still had some respite.

She hoped that this respite would soon transform into an unconditional and complete freedom, the most precious good she could get.

The young woman only needed a few minutes to go down the wooden staircases, to take the letters in her mailbox, and to go back upstairs. She was flipping through them carelessly when an envelope caught her attention, and she couldn't stop grinning when she saw a neat writing without flourish that she knew too well.

Quinn opened the letter once settled on the couch. A small card was in it, which made her smile grow bigger when she read it.

On the front was a simple "Happy Birthday" written in black ink, impersonal, while on the back, the older one of the Fabray sisters had wrote about ten lines in which she reassured the young Parisian, assured that she was in good health and careful, congratulated her for her birthday, and also told her her wish to come back soon in France, to join her and have her normal life back, away from the army's orders, pirate radios, rebellious acts and endless sabotages.

As soon as the war would end.

Quinn sighed while gazing absently at the white envelope. She missed Frannie. Another one of the consequences of this absurd war. She was hundreds, even thousands of kilometers away, and couldn't come back home yet.

It was at this moment, as Quinn was lost in her thoughts that made her mentally insult all of those blatant injustices that were giving rhythm to her life, that Rachel came out of the kitchen to sit next to her, her eyes drawn by the letter between her hands, the one that had caught her attention for the last ten minutes.

"Bad news ?" she said hesitantly when she saw the blonde's lost look.

Quinn gave her a small smile while shaking her head. "My sister wrote me."

As she didn't add anything, Rachel got nearer and asked her: "Is she alright ?"

"Oh. Yes. It's just that... I don't know when she will be back home." She shrugged sadly. "I'd like it if she didn't have to work so far away, even if it's for a good cause. I think that I'll be more relieved if she was closer, and not in a foreign country from which she sends me a letter every six months."

Quinn stopped, sighed, then took Rachel's hand that was resting on her knees. She gave her a resigned smile, before adding that she would have liked to have at least a way to contact her; the lack of communication was terribly unpleasant.

"I'm sure that she'll be back soon," the brunette said, squeezing her hand, "I'm certain of it. The war cannot go on indefinitely."

Silence. Quinn didn't answer for long seconds that seemed like an eternity. Finally, she spoke up.

"Perhaps it can. Maybe the war can go on for a long time. The forces of Liberation are maybe not as powerful nor as numerous as they seem to be. Who knows? We could need Frannie's help for weeks, months, or even years. Until an armistice will be signed, or until the war is definitely lost."

"Don't think about that, Quinn."

Quinn shrugged again, letting out a long sigh. "I just fear that something will happen to her."

Rachel understood where her fears were coming from. All the more so as Quinn's sister had willingly chosen to leave, to participate in this war without being forced to — or being mentally forced, probably — and if something serious happened to her, it would be another injustice to hit her.

Because soldiers were dying every day, sent to the front, and families were slaughtered and pulled apart every day too, simply because they found themselves at the wrong place in the wrong time, while Frannie didn't have anything to do with those massacres; yet she had decided to stand up for her country and to resist, without asking for anything back.

All those thoughts were making her sick.

She clung a little more to Quinn, resting her chin on her shoulder and kissing the skin of her neck.

"Don't worry about her," she said softly. "She'll be back soon. Don't think about what could happen to her."

The blonde made a small vague noise in response, letting herself be soothed by the soap smell coming from Rachel and feeling her hair caressing her collarbone. Rachel was right. There was no point in thinking about the worse. Closing her eyes, Quinn thought about what could have happened to Rachel before she met her, about what the war had made her suffer during all those years spent clandestinely, crossing borders and hopping in trains, hoping that no firing squad was waiting for her at the end.

She was pulled out of her inner ramblings when she felt Rachel lift her head, then the barely perceptible touch of the brunette's fingers on her clavicle, just under the fabric of her dress covering her shoulder.

"What's that ?" she heard her ask in a slightly confused voice.

In a blink, Quinn knew what she was talking about. Looking down only confirmed her apprehensions.

Rachel's thin, bony fingers were brushing the barely visible scar under the material of her dress, not daring to do more than a superficial examination of the wound with the tips of her fingers. Pale and sinuous, it sneaked in under the fabric, disappeared so only the smallest part was apparent. Without realizing it, Quinn had grabbed Rachel's hand before placing it on her lap, diverting it from this whitish sensitive patch of skin. The brunette gave her a questioning, tender look, with the same question in her eyes.

There was no way for her to elude the question; she didn't want to, anyway.

"It is better to tell you everything from the beginning," Quinn said with a slight smile.

"Probably," the shorter girl responded.

The blonde smiled, and despite the dread that tormented her vocal cords and her stomach, she didn't doubt for an instant Rachel's trust in her.

"For you to understand, I first have to talk to you about my family," she began, feeling a vague nostalgia overwhelming her as she searched through her memories. "We lived in a small village to the east of Paris, my mother, my father, Frannie and I. My father made the Great war just before I was born. He had been called up on the front as a nurse. He got through it unharmed, and since then he took care of us while continuing his job as a doctor. My mom... I don't really know what her job was. Couturier, maybe, or washerwoman. A lot of odd jobs that enabled her to feed us when we were young. I learned later that she had informed the French espionage or counter-espionage agencies during the war. It's probably thanks to her that we had had a roof above our head and our plates full most of the time."

"I spent wonderful years back there. I think that I could have lived there all my life if I hadn't been forced to leave. One day — it was in 1935 or in 1936, while Frannie and I were coming back from school —, everything changed in a split second, when we caught sight of our house. It was a bit away from the center of the village, you know? So very few people passed by our house, and we had to walk a lot to go to school. Still, what I meant was that when we got closer, we saw that the door was open."

"I thought about it this famous day when I got back from the laundry and you weren't there." Quinn visibly struggled against the tears, then she drew a long breath to catch back the train of her thoughts. "Frannie and I took fright, naturally. We got nearer, slowly, fearing that an invisible assailant would come out of the house and catch us, but there was no one. Absolutely no one. My dad's office was in one of the rooms in the back, and he didn't go out much, like my mom; so not seeing a single soul gave us a shock. But that wasn't the only thing that was strange. Everywhere, sheets of paper were scattered on the floor, on the furniture, inside the tiniest interstices. The chairs and the trinkets had been knocked over, only very few of them were still in one piece. It was as if a storm had passed through every room. I still remember how I felt all the oxygen leaving my lungs."

"We couldn't understand what had happened, but we had an idea about it. Straight away I knew that something bad should have happened when I saw Frannie's look. She seemed devastated, at the same time ready to cry and to yell at the entire world. And yet, she didn't tell me what she already knew this day. That's one of the advantages of being the eldest child, I suppose," Quinn said while shrugging. "She understood things better than me. She has always been the smartest one. I remember that she took me to one of our neighbors, one friend of my parents that had a son the same age as Frannie. He was the one who told us the latest news."

"He had been alerted in the afternoon when he heard engine noises, which pushed him into coming near the window to see what was happening. Little people had a car, back then, and even less in a small village in which you could walk from an edge to another in twenty minutes. He had seen three or four cars stopped in front of our house, then men who looked not very easy-going coming out of them. Some of them had guns. He had wanted to warn somebody, but who? Five minutes later and they were coming out of our home, escorting my parents, and they started their cars and never came back. That's all."

"He never knew who those people were. Me neither. But according to him, and according to Frannie and some documents that we found when we were cleaning the house, it is possible that those men were from a counterespionage agency. Probably Germans, since my mother had been sent to Germany after the end of the Great war to gather information for the French government and the secret service. I haven't told you, but she was perfectly bilingual because she had an Alsatian mother. Those men also could have been from the Gestapo. It doesn't really matter to me, ultimately. All that I knew, and all that I know today, is that those men took my parents from me, without them being able to say goodbye to us. It's..."

The young woman stopped abruptly, visibly looking for words that she couldn't find, before gazing down at her hand, linked with Rachel's. She looked at it for a long moment, starting a slow back and forth movement with her thumb on the dark-haired girl's knuckles, then she sighed. She plunged her green eyes into the brunette's kind ones.

"The following days, I tried to kill myself. Hence the scar."

Silence met her declaration.

Quinn didn't explain how. Rachel didn't ask. Quinn then thought that she could quickly get used to recount the stories of her childhood, even the most difficult ones, to the small Jew, only to watch her listen to her attentively, wide-eyed, hung on her lips and drinking her words without cutting her off, without judging her.

Quinn was struck by this last point. Rachel didn't judge her. She wasn't sure that she would have done the same if she had been in her place. And yet, the brunette was letting her talk, without doing anything but smile or squeeze her hand to comfort her, with her tranquil presence but not in the least superfluous.

"Fran saved my life," she went on once she was certain that her nerves weren't going to abandon her one more time. "She took care of me during the following weeks. We still lived in this house, since we had nowhere to go. I thought that it would continue for a long time, but our salvation was much closer than we expected. Two months had barely passed and a stranger was knocking at our door, and she took us with her to go to Paris — I'm hardly exaggerating. A woman that we had never seen before suddenly introduced herself, proclaiming to be a vague cousin of our family, and she wanted us to follow her to the capital city? It was hard to believe. Frannie was very suspicious, but after we gave it some time to think about it, we agreed on the fact that we couldn't go on living like that. Especially as a house like ours was hard to maintain for a barely adult woman and a teenager."

"You can guess what happened next. This woman was Sue Sylvester. She turned out to truly be a cousin of mom and because she hadn't heard from her for weeks, she had wanted to visit her to check if everything was alright. She was aware of mom's unofficial business. Obviously, she figured out what should have happened when she only found my sister and me, the only resident of the house. She offered us to come to Paris, where she could take care of us and of the most... practical aspects of our life. It is thanks to her if I didn't starve to death. She gave us money, she rent this apartment, without asking for anything in return. Sue had been more than a distant aunt taking two orphans in after a disaster; she has been the parent we missed, who had been taken from us too soon."

Quinn stopped, breathing deeply and smiling wistfully while thinking about everything that Sue had done for them when nothing bound her to do so. Rachel's voice, full of tenderness, was finally heard, almost whispered, as if she was afraid to disturb the silence.

"Do you know what happened to your parents ?"

"We never knew," she said with a slight shrug. "I don't know if they're in jail, or if they had been tortured, or even if they're dead. I don't know if they are in France or at the other side of the world, if they had been forced to work for the Gestapo, for Germany or another state. I have no idea about the treatment to spies. I just hope... It may seem naive, coming from me, and probably unrealistic to even think about it, but I hope that one day I'll find them. I will run into them in the street, or they will send me a letter saying they're finally free, or Frannie would have tracked them and we could finally see them again."

Rachel smiled. Optimism was paradoxically welcome in these times.

She squeezed Quinn's hand with hers, then she leaned to kiss her shoulder, her collarbone, moving aside the strap of her dress to touch the pale scar with the tip of her lips, just enough to hear the blonde inspire strongly at her contact.

"Make me think that I have to thank this famous Sue when I'll finally meet her," she said while resting her head in her neck. "I, at least, owe her that."

"She will respond that she only did her duty," Quinn chuckled.

The young brunette giggled, but soon collected herself and she was once again calm and serious. Quinn must have felt it, because she slipped her arm around her waist, drawing her a bit closer to her body, before asking Rachel if everything was alright.

"Yes," she answered right away. "Don't worry. It's just that... I was thinking." She didn't add anything, so the blonde affectionately squeezed her waist to encourage her to continue.

"I already thought about it — about killing myself. Many times." Upon seeing the look on Quinn's face, she promptly added: "Oh, no, I don't think about it anymore, if that's what you're wondering. I'll never have the strength to do it. It's just that sometimes when I was on the run and I had to leave my shelter to find another one, and walk kilometers to avoid the Gestapo, or take the train clandestinely until my next destination... I thought about it, a few times. I've been on the roads for long years. I had lived humid and unbearable summers, and winters soaked to the bone. I often wondered why I was doing all of this. Why was I fleeing, why was I running, when the only possible outcome would have been death."

Rachel then shook her head against the blonde's shoulder.

"But I didn't do anything. I didn't have the strength. Perhaps because I still had a slight hope onto which I held, and maybe this hope prevented me from doing something irrevocable. I'm glad I did hold onto it," she sighed; then she lifted her head to watch the gray eyes studded with green that fascinated her so much. "Because this hope allowed me to meet you."

Quinn didn't respond, but she instead wondered how could a woman, a young girl as innocent and irreproachable and naive as Rachel, have gone through so many horrors.

She didn't know the quarter of what Rachel had lived through, but she knew that she had seen much more atrocities than she did. Quinn wondered briefly what would her life have been if the small Jew had been caught by those nazi monsters, by a collaborator a bit too talkative, and if she hadn't taken her in.

The blonde shook her head to avoid herself those endless reflections leading to a dead end.

"I'm happy that you're here," Quinn finished while softly smiling.

* * *

Quinn unveiled her past to Rachel a bit more every day — or rather every night, because it was during these moments bathed in darkness and deafening silence that it was easier for her to open up.

She talked to her about Frannie, much more since she got her letter, and about their precious link. As far as she could remember, it had always been this way. Frannie and Quinn hadn't been much pulled apart during their childhood, and Quinn had thought that it would have been this way all their lives.

She told her that, even if they were four years apart, they had been closer than anyone, being in turns sisters, friends, and confidantes, then parents when they lost theirs.

At the request of Rachel, she also told her her happiest memories, talked to her about her parents and her hometown, where she had lived until she was seventeen. The little Jew, for her part, was content with listening to her, rarely speaking but to make a remark from time to time.

Quinn knew that it was hard for Rachel to broach the subject of her own family. She had only made slight references to her childhood in Austria with her parents. The blonde didn't take offense, nonetheless; she would wait as long as she had to until Rachel would feel capable of telling her about her uncommon past. And even if this time never came, she would make sure that the dark-haired girl could always count on her.

She had also modified some of her habits and, every night, instead of occupying the couch for a few lonely hours, she would slip into her bed, a book in her hand, glasses on her nose, and she would read until the brunette joined her to snuggle against her and keep her warm. Quinn would read aloud passages of one of her novels, murmur her love through poems by Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman in the muted atmosphere of her bedroom, and fall asleep hugging her body.

It soon became a ritual that the two women impatiently waited for.

Everything seemed to finally find its place, unlike the first days of her cohabitation with Rachel when every gesture was hesitant, every word well thought out and cautious before saying it.

One day, Quinn dared to hope for this agreement to last, that Rachel could stay at her sides even after the war was over.

However, they couldn't do anything about the unexpected event that disrupted them one evening.

During the night of the twenty-first April, the two occupants of the apartment awoke with a start, with the displeasing sensation that they had been literally shaken awake. They didn't have the time to ask the slightest question, because soon another quake shook the building, making the floor vibrate.

Quinn felt Rachel shuddering, and she reacted in a second by wrapping her arms around her, seated against the headboard.

She reached across to light the bedside lamp, but the switch only clicked and the bulb didn't light up. She couldn't see what time was it on the wall clock either. Upon glancing through the window, the young woman couldn't see anything unusual, only a few lampposts were weakly lighting up the street, too feebly for her to notice a single thing.

Quinn wasn't reassured in the least — neither was Rachel, judging by the tremors going through the young woman. Before she could think about what to do, the room was yet again the victim of another jolt, weaker than the previous ones, but it seemed to never end. In the humming racket, Quinn thought she could detect the zooming noises of aircraft engines.

The idea of going out of her apartment to ask for help or information on what was happening seemed all of a sudden less appealing. At this instant, only Rachel mattered, and her safety.

The words that Quinn had meant to pronounce to soothe the young woman got stuck in her throat when she realized that she had no way to know if everything was going to be alright. She swallowed her words at the same time as a few tears, listening to the distant echoes of the bangs of the detonations of the bombs, her stomach in knots.

A wave of panic brutally took her. And, as she hugged against her a woman as clueless as she was about what was happening outside, she thought with despair and despondency that the Luftwaffe had named Paris the next city to wreck.

The night seemed painfully long.

* * *

 _I'm always making a comeback, but nobody ever tells me where I've been._

 _— Billie Holiday._


	13. Chapter 13

**Here is chapter thirteen, thanks to the amazing beta Hazel006. Happy New Year, everyone, I wish you the best. Someone asked when was Paris liberated; it was August 25th 1944, to be precise. So, only a few months to go for Quinn and Rachel... What do you think will happen ?  
**

* * *

The bombings stopped after an hour of the deafening din. Time seemed much longer for the two women of the third floor, as well as for the most of the neighborhood.

When the noise finally disappeared and the last echoes vanished to mingle with the night and the silence, Quinn let out a strangled sigh as well as some tears.

But the building was still standing, and Rachel wasn't hurt.

It was all that mattered. Of course, she dreaded that the tremors would start again, but the calm seemed to be definitely settled outside.

She tried to light up the bedside lamp once again, but to no avail.

"I think that a fuse has blown," she said while hugging Rachel closer. She didn't have the slightest idea, actually. It could only have been the filament in the bulb, but she strongly doubted it.

The brunette didn't answer because she didn't know what to respond. It seemed to her that she could still perceive the echo of the bombs blowing up near, and it terrified her. She had never been a witness of a bombing. She knew the sound made by a bullet fired from a gun, she had heard munitions whistling, fired at full speed, but until now, she hadn't known how a bomb exploded.

Now, she had a pretty good idea.

Quinn was still embracing her, her solid and fine arms giving her an indispensable feeling of safety. Rachel could feel her hands clasping her shoulders, her ribs; the tips of her fingers were drawing imaginary shapes on her pajama, and it was enough to soothe her in the tumult on the night.

She couldn't go back to sleep, neither could Quinn. They stayed entangled together on the bed for a long moment, or perhaps a minute, neither of them could have said exactly how much time had passed while they were in this position. What Rachel was sure of, it's that it was still pitch dark when their breathings finally calmed down.

She wasn't shaking anymore; Quinn was keeping her warm and reassured her through her simple embraces, and, this time, didn't make an exception.

Her warm breath left her neck and Rachel instantly felt a sensation of emptiness.

"Okay. Everything's alright," the blonde said in a jolting, but determined voice. "We're going to go in the kitchen, drink a big glass of water to calm us down, and it'll get better after that. Let's go."

She held out a hand that Rachel was prompt to take. Her legs were as weak as cotton, and she would have probably collapsed without the young woman's arm on her waist. Once in the kitchen, the promised glass transformed itself into three glasses of fresh water and a cup of hot tea, but they didn't care. Going back to sleep for the rest of the night was going to be difficult.

Quinn was tempted to turn on the radio to listen to the latest news, but she didn't do it. It wouldn't be helpful if there was no electricity in the building, and the BBC would doubtless be more informed on the situation than she was.

The brown-haired woman slowly got close to the window of the living-room, pulling aside the curtains with a useless care, before looking outside.

Paris seemed unreal. Peaceful and silent. Never would she have imagined the City of Light so inert. Even the lampposts seemed to light up the sidewalk reluctantly, wanting to conceal the town under the shadows. Without the moon to enlighten it, it looked as if it was nothing.

Lost in her dreadful contemplation of the little avenues and the stone buildings and monuments barely visible, Rachel welcomed with relief the hands that came to rest on her waist, then the body pressing on her back.

"Paris seems so sad," Rachel said in an atomic voice. "Almost dead. It's nothing like I imagined it."

Quinn agreed. This city didn't look like the one she got to know eight years ago. It was deserted, despite it's two and a half millions of inhabitants.

"I suppose that it is normal. The war can change a town."

She felt Rachel sigh, then turn around in her arms, watching her with her sweet, piercing gaze. Quinn stopped breathing when a confident hand came to put a blonde strand back behind her ear, and her fingers stroking her cheekbone, tracing the contour of her eye, her eyebrow, the bridge of her nose.

The blonde noticed at this instant how Rachel's hair had grown, those curls that barely brushed her shoulders a few months before were now falling in the middle of her back. Reaching out to lose her hand in her tresses, she thought that they should cut it so that it won't be in the way.

The small brunette grinned. She leaned forward until she could feel Quinn's breath on her face.

"But as long as you're here, it's still the most beautiful city in the world."

Quinn didn't know what to respond; maybe because there were too many things she would have wanted to say at this moment. But most of all, she thought, for the first time for more than a second, that Rachel was staying here because of her. She was the only person that made it possible for her to live in this town.

And Rachel would probably want to go back to her home after the war.

The only thought that she would have to live without the brunette by her side again was unbearable. She tried to obscure it, to not think any more about the possibilities that the future would bring, by kissing Rachel. Quinn let out a weak moan; she pushed back the intolerable thought that she could never taste this fragment of freedom and tomorrows and joy she was granted. She slid her lips against hers almost violently, almost desperately, tangling her hand in her hair so she couldn't think about anything except the sensations that Rachel and her closeness provoked in her.

The future would wait, Quinn thought. The war would wait. In this instant, only the present moment mattered. The rest could wait.

The two women soon left the darkness of the living room for the obscurity of the bedroom — should it ever become their bedroom, their retreat, and their apartment, Quinn briefly wondered — where they laid under the blankets despite the heat and the dryness of April. The humidity of the winter had been soon forgotten and replaced by milder temperatures.

They resumed their kiss where they left it, slower, lazier than before as tiredness caught them, and Quinn fell asleep with the sound of Rachel's regular breathing against her neck.

* * *

Quinn could only sleep for a few hours, and was already awake before the first sun rays, which has never happened, contrary to Rachel who was up at dawn. Nonetheless, the young Jew was still sound asleep when a bell was ringing ten times in the distance.

She couldn't repress a small smile upon watching her. Rachel seemed so peaceful. Happy, even, if she dared use this word. Seeing her like this, curled up under the duvet and gripping the sheet with her small hands, her head buried in the pillow, nobody could have known that she risked at every moment to be executed, or worse.

Quinn remembered too well the roundup of July 1942, when thousands of Jews had been arrested and shut away in the Vélodrome d'Hiver, before being deported to God knows where. If Rachel had been in Paris only a year before, she could have been one of those people. And she probably wouldn't be alive.

Such a great operation could happen again, she was aware of it. A sigh escaped from her lips.

Everything was so complex, and yet it was a sickening simplicity.

If the police, the Gestapo or anybody with bad intentions discovered the existence of her roommate, they would take delight in taking care of her, and of Quinn at the same time. Perhaps her neighbors would also bear the consequences.

On the other hand, if she succeeded in keeping Rachel safe and sound like she more or less did until now until an armistice or a new law on the status of the Jews was signed, everything would settle itself. Rachel could go out again, Quinn would not fear continually for her life and her safety anymore, and their lives would finally be easier.

Until the little brunette will have had enough and would want to go home.

A hundred of reasons would push her into doing so. Homesickness was probably beginning to weigh upon her. Austria was her motherland, the place where she had grown up and lived, and nothing could ever replace it, not even one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Particularly if this city had been a keystone of the Nazi horror.

Demoralized, Quinn felt her heart clench at this possibility. She wanted to keep Rachel for her, with her, and she felt awfully selfish for wanting so much. Yet, she knew that she could never keep her against her will, preventing her from making her own choices. Choices she had been forbidding to do for many years, and that she surely dreamt of being able to make again.

Rachel and her happiness were coming before anything else.

The young Parisian heard the bed squeak, then the woman who was sleeping beside her softly stretched to awaken. Two sleepy eyes fixed upon her, and she instantly smiled again.

"Were you awake for a long while?" Rachel asked while reducing the distance separating them.

Quinn grinned, shook her head by way of response. "Good," Rachel said, her body filling the last centimeters left. Quinn sighed after Rachel nestled her head between her neck and her shoulder, and one of her hands spontaneously came to bury itself in her brown hair, caressing her skin with the tip of her fingers.

She didn't know how many mornings like this one she had left before being alone again, and she'd rather not think about it. She would take everything that Rachel would offer, and what she wanted to give her, even if it was only for a little while.

But if she could encourage the young woman to stay, without her feeling as if she was deprived of her free will, then she would do it.

Because Rachel exuded life, happiness, and love, and Quinn wanted to keep on tasting all those emotions that were making her heart beat faster.

* * *

Rachel and Quinn stayed cloistered during the following days, the brunette forbidding the blonde to go outside because of safety, she had said. It wasn't totally without foundation. We could still hear, from time to time, a bomb blowing up, and wandering in the streets would be playing with death, literally.

No plane flew over the city. No muffled portentous whirring could be heard. Only the sharp, brutal, terrible sounds of what the blonde knew were time bombs, filling the Parisian void with deadly noises.

Paris didn't seem as sure as before, and fear was catching people up.

The day after, as the explosions seemed to dry up, Quinn learned from Sam what happened during the night of April the twenty-first, and she had stayed speechless.

Her neighbor had knocked at her door a little before lunch time, with a worried look, but he had been visibly relieved upon seeing that the two lodgers of the third floor were both behind the door.

"Did you hear this racket last night?"

Quinn didn't have the time to confirm as he was pacing in the living room, deciding that the corridor wasn't an appropriate place if he wanted to discuss — especially when they had nosy neighbors that tried to perceive conversations with their indiscreet ears.

Rachel made him sign to sit down on the couch, and she sat beside him while the blonde woman stayed standing, waiting for the rest of his story.

"Airplanes have bombed Paris," the young man went on, his brow furrowed. "They were English and American planes."

Silence met his words as the two women swallowed the information.

So the Luftwaffe wasn't behind those moments, those days, those nights of terror and anticipation. The dark-haired girl looked down, shoulders down, and at this moment Quinn wouldn't have wanted anything more than to erase her torments by hugging her, by kissing her until she made her smile, soothing her with sweet nothings until they fell asleep in each other's arms.

But she couldn't, not as long as Sam was here.

Maybe she wanted to keep this relationship for herself, a secret which only Rachel and she would know, that they would own, a liaison protected from reality and the world that surrounded them.

Quinn would probably tell Sam when the moment would come, and she would confirm Mercedes and Brittany's suspicions. She would probably even tell Sue Sylvester, this woman that had seen her growing up, changing from grieving teenager to independent young woman. But for the time being, unveiling the true nature of their relationship wasn't possible. She would have the time to think about it later.

Without the least suspecting Quinn's thoughts, Sam went on:

"I heard from Sue and some acquaintances, that the allied forces had wanted to hit German bases, like the RATP warehouse. We had been pretty lucky here, the buildings aren't much damaged. We can't say the same about the nearby districts," he said somberly. "There are nothing more than debris around the Porte de la Chapelle. The shunting yard is completely destroyed. The district of the Batignolles is in a bad shape too. It's a real war scene. There are craters everywhere, gas leaks, snatched trees, even lifeless bodies. There are families spread on the sidewalks because their house has been destroyed. It's awful."

Rachel felt like throwing up. She wasn't well informed on those stories of alliances, Anglo-Saxon aviation and nonaggression pacts, but she had a good idea on the question.

The allied forces, as Sam said it, had wanted to bomb strategic positions belonging to the German Army at the cost of heavy collateral damages.

It didn't matter if they had succeeded in destroying a railway station or an ammunition factory. They had taken the lives of innocent people, too, innocent people of their own camp.

It was the price to pay when people made war, she thought bitterly.

* * *

The electric current came back during the week after Quinn had lengthily looked into the circuit breaker and some of the cables.

After the bombings a few days ago, she had decided that it would be wiser to wait for a little while longer before going outside in the streets (which, she realized it, wouldn't make a difference if a plane dropped a bomb on the rooftop of her building. It would only be less painful and quicker.).

The following days seemed to run at a slow pace. Quinn did her best to save the food, not wanting to go back to Sue this soon to resupply. The police patrols had undoubtedly been reinforced since the twenty-two April, so she would rather wait for the excitement and the fear of diminishing.

Rachel, as for her, wasn't letting Quinn out of her sight, keeping on sleeping in her arms, helping her cooking the meals, humming songs from Ella Fitzgerald and Edith Piaf that were played on the radio in her ear. It wasn't surprising, except that the blonde had the strange feeling that Rachel was afraid.

Afraid of what, she had a slight idea about it, even if she couldn't be sure. This night and these days of uninterrupted explosions might have shaken her more than she had wanted. It had perhaps even reminded her of weeks of horror that she had desperately wanted to forget, and that had come to her mind on the same occasion.

Nonetheless, the small Jew still laughed and kept on smiling, whispering sweet words in the dark of the night and the safety of the bedroom, stroking Quinn's forearms with her lean fingers while Quinn told her an umpteenth story.

Their relation was far from perfect, of course, but the blonde considered herself lucky. Her and Rachel were resisting pretty good for two women that risked their lives at every instant. Of course, their conversations weren't as garnished as the ones some couples had, who could go out and discover new things every day and, consequently, fueled their discussions and multiplied by ten the number of words they could reel off per minute.

As Rachel couldn't neither freely, nor legally pace the Parisian avenues, the only matter that fed their remarks was coming from memories, from stories coming from their respective childhood, sometimes even from the news of the battlefield.

Novelty didn't really define their relation, but the lack of novelty wasn't unbearable, on the contrary.

They could learn a bit more about each other, day after day, without feeling forced that they must divulge their past with an interminable monolog that would deprive them of a night of sleep or a day of carefreeness.

Quinn wondered, from time to time, what would become of them in a few months, in a few years. In a country in peace.

Her brain offered her thoughts and images that seemed too good to be true, and she would shake her head, the shadow of a smile or an affected pout darkening her face.

She also wondered, at moments where everything was for the best, when Rachel was humming a song, curled up against her body, and that no external danger was threatening their balance, if she would ever have the opportunity to become intimate with her.

It wasn't surprising that Quinn wanted such a thing. She had realized it little by little, and when the thought struck her for the first time, she was less surprised than terrified at the thought that the small brunette wouldn't want her.

But mostly, Quinn wanted to make love to her, tenderly and passionately, in the snugness provided by her bed and the four walls of her bedroom, to make Rachel forget, as well as herself, the bombings at the other side of the Earth, at the other side of the Channel, at the other side of the town, and the thousands of people arrested, executed and shut away, and the fear in which they were bathed for months, for years, and the risks they exposed themselves to if we ever were to discover them.

However, as great the drives of her heart were, Quinn didn't give in to them. Because, stronger as the desire to feel Rachel's bare skin against hers was the desire to see Rachel happy, blooming, and safe. She would do anything to see this day, that would then become a thousand days, and only at this instant, she could worry about her own feelings and what she wanted.

Rachel was coming first.

* * *

During the following days, Paris seemed, more than before, immobilized under a coat of dust, of soldiers and poverty. Gray and emptied of its endless passersby after a deadly allied bombing.

Just when she thought that her cupboards were beginning to show signs of emptiness, Quinn heard someone knock at her front door. She didn't believe in coincidences, but this visit was curiously coming at just the right time.

It was seven in the evening and Rachel was taking a shower when she opened the door.

On the doorstep, carrying two duffel bags swaying at the end of two hands worn out by manual labor, was standing Sue Sylvester, straight like a rod, an unreadable look painted on her face.

She offered Quinn a smile when she greeted her, surprised that she would come to visit her, and Sue put the bags down at her feet.

"It's been a while since we last saw each other, didn't it ?" she said with her mocking voice, inspiring confidence. The younger one could only nod, unable to answer such a simple question.

Sue wasn't put off by the lack of eloquence of her protégé, and continued in a sweeter tone, slipping her hands inside the pockets of her jacket: "A little bird told me that you weren't going outside anymore. And I was thinking that it's been a while since you didn't come to claim your food, so here am I. The bags are for you," she said pointing at them, "and for your little protégé. Where is she, by the way ?"

The sound of water running was filling the apartment, answering the question of the tall woman, but Quinn thought right to add that Rachel was under the shower.

Sue nodded and stayed quiet for a minute or two. What she then said let the young woman dumbfounded.

"So that's why you don't go out anymore."

She hadn't pronounced those words in a disdainful way, or aggressively. It was more of a declaration, a statement impossible to deny, and Quinn slowly nodded, unable to reply. An honest smile then stretched Sue Sylvester's lips, who reached out to put a firm hand on the smaller girl's shoulder, before saying (and Quinn would always remember her words): "Don't worry. I understand."

Sue leaned forward to kiss the blonde's forehead, a gesture that she hadn't reproduced for years, and Quinn could barely hold back her tears upon feeling so loved and accepted.

Sue knew, and she wasn't rejecting her.

When Quinn told Rachel about Sue Sylvester's lightning visit, the brown-haired girl seemed happy and disappointed at the same time.

"I wonder when I could finally meet her," she said while shrugging and with a half-smile.

It was normal, after all, that the young woman wanted to meet and thank the person who fed her indirectly for months. Quinn assured her that they would meet soon, even if she wasn't sure about it. But if it was making Rachel happy, then she would manage to invite Sue a night of summer around a dinner.

The bags were also containing two pairs of socks almost new, as well as two dresses and a cardigan with a holed sleeve. The size of the clothes was approximately about Rachel's corpulence. Quinn grinned, thinking about Sue Sylvester's generosity, before sitting at the table to mend the items of clothing with a thread and a needle.

To see every morning, when she opened her wardrobe, Rachel's dresses hanging beside hers was giving her a feeling of intense joy.

As if the brunette has always been there, and would always live in here, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her activities only took her one hour, and at the moment she finished, when she went inside the bedroom, Rachel was already lying in bed, one arm crossed under her skull, her gaze lost on the ceiling where the only coat of paint was cracking on either side.

Quinn left her roommate for a few more minutes — only taking the time to put her pajamas on — but when she got back into the room to go to sleep, the brunette hadn't moved an inch.

"Is everything alright ?" she asked while slipping under the feather duvet.

Rachel didn't answer right away, laying her eyes in the green irises of the young woman, before nodding, the corner of her mouth lifting up in an unconscious reflex.

Nothing was added as the two women were gauging each other, looking at each other, taking in features they had long memorized, fine and prominent noses, hollow cheeks and high cheekbones, wide, smooth and worried foreheads despite the smiles that stretched dry lips.

Quinn's fingers came to brush her chin and her jaw when she whispered as if she didn't want to break this instant of contemplation that seemed to stretch itself endlessly:

"What are you thinking about ?"

Rachel was breathing slowly, almost silently, and didn't answer.

"Honey ?"

"About what I would have done if you hadn't come down in this basement."

The intensity of her voice hit Quinn with full force when she spoke, gravely and reverently. Then, Rachel leaned forward to kiss her mouth, slowly at first, taking the time to savor every ounce, every second of the kiss, before turning it into something more desperate and rushed.

Quinn moaned when she felt the brunette's tongue stroking her lips, looking for more, wanting more.

They soon found themselves sitting on their knees on the mattress, without having realized it, lost in a fervent and disordered kiss. Their hands came to add themselves in this entanglement of skin and this jumble of breathings, resting on shoulders, on ribs wrapped in fabrics, caressing the body that was under with the tip of the fingers.

The blonde sighed weakly when Rachel shifted, filling up her lungs with an oxygen that she was beginning to lack. Rachel took the advantage of the opportunity to kiss her jawline, moving her lips until they reached the junction of her neck and her ear.

She was losing all notion of time, losing control. Only the constant touch of the brunette and her hand tangled in her brown curls allowed her to be anchored in reality. With half-closed eyes, Quinn was breathing laboriously, was restraining herself from moaning every time Rachel's tongue was tasting a softer zone of her epidermis, making her shiver, languid.

She slipped her arm around her waist, squeezed her hip when she felt she was on the verge of tumbling.

Rachel's smell, intoxicating, unique, muddled with the smell of the soap which she herself used, only added up to her emotion.

Quinn got out of her lethargy when she felt fingers struggling with the buttons of her shirt. Looking down, she saw the small brunette looking at her intensely, a mix of fear, want and love in her gaze.

She didn't say anything, only leaned to kiss her once more, calming the fire that was eating her up from the inside and the outside for an instant. Quinn felt Rachel undoing the last buttons, moving aside the lapels of her shirt, freeing for the first time her bare shoulders, her collarbones, her chest, her pale stomach to the brunette's gaze.

Rachel only watched her for an eternity. Then, unexpectedly, she said to Quinn, her voice like a whisper and coated with a thick layer of emotion: "You're beautiful."

The blonde blushed, smiled, felt her ribcage cage swell and her heart beat with emotion upon hearing those words.

Finally, Rachel acted, and Quinn sighed with pleasure at the feeling of her mouth, light as a feather, on her alabaster shoulder.

The soap and Rachel were the only smells she could breathe all night long.

* * *

Rachel was awake for hours when Quinn, lying on her back, woke up, stretching her numb limbs. She couldn't stop herself from smiling upon seeing the blonde rubbing her still sleepy eyes, then cuddle up to her naked body by tangling their legs together.

The dark-haired girl blushed when Quinn took her hand, slipped her fingers between hers, then kissed each of her knuckles, before leaning to kiss her on the mouth. Her kiss tasted like tomorrows and freedom.

"Sleep well ?" she said huskily. Rachel nodded quietly.

The two women fell into a comfortable silence, interspersed by their breathings and the light murmur of the sheets sliding on their bare skin. Nothing was said or done for long minutes, perhaps even hours, as both of them were enjoying the sweet body heat that was offered to them, slipping fingers on denuded shoulder blades or prominent hips.

It was Rachel who broke the quietness of the moment, speaking slowly, her eyes wandering on the blonde's face.

"You know, you are the first person who... who..." She cut herself off, took a deep breath while nervously laughing under Quinn's questioning gaze. "I haven't had anyone before you."

Furrowing her brows, Quinn asked her after a second of hesitation: "Do you regret ?"

"Absolutely not."

The response came instantly, and Quinn smiled, almost shyly, before resting her head under Rachel's. She felt the brunette's hand into her hair, stroking the nape of her neck, her protruding bones under her white skin.

Quinn sighed with ease, kissed the collarbone before her, and she was sure she could hear Rachel smiling when she did it.

* * *

 _Your eyes of blue, your kisses too  
I never knew what they could do  
I can't believe that you're in love with me._

 _— Billie Holiday._

* * *

 **(the bombing of Montmartre in April 1944 truly happened, making more than 600 dead and about 400 people hurt, plus the material damages.)**


	14. Chapter 14

**Big thanks to Hazel006, as usual. I hope you'll like this chapter, it was pretty hard to write. Also, I feel like I have many followers but not many reviews, it's kind of weird and unsettling. Don't hesitate to tell me what you think of the chapters, really, I can only improve myself with your advices.**

* * *

The rain made its entrance with the arrival of May, breaking the long line of dry and humid days and nights to cover the town under liters of uncontrollable and constant water.

A light drizzle was constantly falling on the paved stones, sometimes replaced by a short downpour that soaked people to the bones.

Quinn had been lucky to have Sue's visit. She would have hated having to walk on the boulevards to buy her food, and riding her bike in those conditions was out of the question. It certainly wasn't the moment to slip and break her leg or her neck.

After the bombing of last month, Quinn hadn't had any more news from Brittany, but her worries quickly faded away when said person came at her door, an umbrella in her hand, with the sole purpose of reassuring her. This time, she didn't have any documents to give her, only her eternal smile and two embraces, for her and Rachel.

She seemed happier than usual. Of course, Brittany was constantly joyful, smiling to everyone and all the time. This day, however, the tall blonde woman seemed particularly delighted, almost bouncing up and down, and she surely must have cramps in her cheeks.

After a few minutes of idle talk, Brittany asked Quinn if she could talk to her face to face.

"Of course," the young woman said, even though she had no idea of what Brittany wanted to say to her without the presence of Rachel. She gave an uncomprehending look to the little dark-haired girl before following the other blonde into the kitchen. Brittany leaned against the fridge, her hand rubbing her chin, lost in thoughts while Quinn patiently waited for what she had to say.

She was a bit thrown by the fact that Brittany judged what she was about to say too dangerous, or too confidential for Rachel's ears.

"Apparently, a great operation is getting prepared," said the taller one while looking Quinn in the eyes. "A really great operation."

Quinn didn't understand. She frowned, leaning on the sink and staring at her interlocutor. "What do you mean by that ?"

"Something's going to happen, very soon. An allied landing. To try and free France and all of Europe."

She was struck by the surprise. She didn't know what to respond to this information. An operation to liberate France was planned? The idea seemed foreign to her, impossible, intangible when she had long hoped to hear about a release of the nazi yoke, only to lose hope year after year.

Corsica had of course been set free in the fall of 1943. But winning back an island of a few square kilometers wasn't enough to win the war. Hitler could well let Corsica to the French; he still had half of Europe at his mercy.

But perhaps Brittany was wrong. Her source of information was probably incorrect, making resurge pointless hopes long forgotten so they would, once more, disappear into the atmosphere, only leaving their memory, hypothetical and optimistic, but unrealizable. Perhaps no one would free them. Neither the English nor the Americans, not even the general de Gaulle or the French Army of Liberation. All of this would stay a utopia forever.

However, Brittany seemed certain about what she was claiming.

"The place where it will happen is still kept a secret," the young woman went on, "but it could be on the French shores. Probably in the north or the south. It's a huge operation that is planned, millions of soldiers could even disembark on the beaches. I can't tell you more about it, because I don't really know much, but I can assure you that everything will happen soon. Everything will be over soon."

Strangely, Quinn didn't believe it or didn't want to believe it. How could she react positively when all of her expectations had been disappointed when all of her hopes had been reduced to nothing after only a few months of unbearable dictatorship?

"Quinn? Don't you have to say something ?" her friend asked.

"I don't know," she said lowly. "I don't know if it will happen like this. It might be false."

Brittany looked a bit taken aback. "I'm not sure about it. Many of my friends have assured me of the facts, and people even begin to talk about it on the BBC. It seems for good, this time. We will be free again."

The news would have delighted millions of French and foreigners. But Quinn seemed to grasp them differently while she looked down and kept her mouth shut.

Without looking up, she felt her blonde friend coming near, then she put her hand on her forearm.

"Is everything alright ?"

Her worried whisper put Quinn out of her passiveness, and she offered what she hoped was a confident smile to Brittany. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be ?"

The young woman didn't answer right away, watching her with her blue eyes that gave the impression that they could tell truth from lies. Brittany wasn't a woman that we could trick. In a brutally honest voice, she replied that she didn't believe her.

"I have the feeling that you don't want to be set free," Brittany continued while watching her softly. "But I can't find a reason why. Does it have something to do with Rachel ?"

"No," Quinn said. "It's good if we're finally free. It's good if the ordeal of the Jews comes to its end, if her ordeal comes to its end. It would be an infinite joy for millions of people."

"So why do you seem so sad ?"

The simplicity of Brittany's questions and statements surprised the young woman. And it was maybe the fact that she has spoken with so much sincerity, so much emotion and candor, but also gentleness, that urged Quinn to reveal what she herself didn't want to declare.

"I don't know if I could handle another disappointment."

"Another ?"

"Yes. Another one. For months, as soon as the Nazis came into Paris, we promised us that we weren't going to suffer, that our daily life wouldn't be hindered by new laws, by the continuous torrent of soldiers and tanks passing under our windows. It's just that... I don't want to learn, in a month or a week, that an umpteenth try will have failed and that we're once more condemned and left on our own," Quinn sighed.

"Believe me," Brittany said without letting her the time to mope around, "it won't be a failed attempt. It's not a joke. We're going to come and save us, and this day will come sooner than you think."

Quinn sighed again, before smiling weakly to the tall blonde. She was maybe right. After all, the Third Reich wasn't invincible. It was made of men, of human beings of flesh and blood, as everyone. They weren't supermen, even if they thought they were.

Yet, they needed much more than a simple landing to eradicate the fascists of the surface of the Earth.

They were still millions, weakened or not. They had the power, legally or not. Much blood and sweat still had to be shed before they got their freedom back.

Lost in her thoughts that were rapidly transforming into despair, Quinn suddenly remembered the words that Charles de Gaulle had pronounced at the radio; she couldn't say when exactly, but his speech had stayed engraved in her memory to this day. He had said, with conviction, on his own particular tone, that the end of hope was the beginning of death.

Perhaps he was right. She shouldn't lose hope, or she would slowly die.

She remembered her first instants spent with Rachel, and she immediately knew that she must go on hoping, even for a little while.

Because Rachel had always kept hope, even in the darkest moments, even when she seemed condemned. So she herself had to hang onto this shaft of light that Brittany brought with her. Rachel would want her to keep on hoping.

* * *

To live continually with someone was breaking little by little the barriers of the privacy. Quinn learned it quickly.

There had been a few times when the young woman came upon her roommate — her girlfriend — half bare, on the point of putting her pajamas on or taking off the remaining of her clothes before taking a shower. Those brief glimpses were rare and often fortuitous, and they left Quinn blushing, clutching at her stomach because she felt like a thousand bugs had chosen to live in it, and she needed long minutes before she could have a more acceptable tint and to calm her feelings down.

It was more than likely than the small Jew had surprised her in a similar state, given the ridiculous smallness of the apartment.

Rachel and she had made love, and by extension laid themselves bare before each other; yet, she felt something slightly different when she saw her like that. Maybe because those moments weren't taking place in their bed, in their bedroom, and that they hadn't anything sexual or erotic in them. Or maybe because it was the fact that she could see the brunette's tanned skin, the line of her spine, her protruding bones under her flesh, the curve of her waist.

She had never felt as close to somebody; not with her sister, with whom she had lived and shared a single bedroom much longer than with Rachel; not even with this woman, who had briefly shared her life, before she fled the country a little before the start of the war.

Quinn felt like the months she had spent with Rachel had made her change, grow up, her who had thought she had stopped her metamorphosis and reached adulthood at the disappearance of her parents.

All of this because of a single person. The small Jew, formerly so afraid of everything, had got through her shell.

The first warm days of the spring came, and the very first heat waves with them.

One day, the young girl who was sharing her bed and her food had wanted to take a bath, an evening when the dryness of the air was becoming suffocating. Never Rachel had taken a bath in this apartment, restricting herself to quick and lukewarm showers to save water.

When she came to tell Quinn her desire to bask in the bathtub and to ask her if it didn't bother her, the latter one laughed, adding that she could do as she wanted.

"Make yourself at home, Rachel."

The brown-haired girl smiled, locked herself in the bathroom for a moment, and Quinn went back to her business. She heard the tap turning and the water running. Thirty seconds hadn't passed and the door opened again, then Rachel stuck her head through the open door.

"Do you want to join me ?"

Nothing could have equaled the redness that had assaulted the blonde's face, spreading until it reached her ears and her neck. Nevertheless, she was prompt to answer, getting up from her chair to follow the brunette into the tiny room.

Their clothes slowly piled themselves up on the floor indistinctly, while the two women shyly looked at each other, a small smile on their lips, a sparkling in their pupils while they rediscovered pieces of skin under the fabric while the bathtub continued to fill up. Quinn's cheeks didn't want to cool down.

Awkwardness didn't have time to settle between them, because Rachel already grabbed a pin and gracefully tied her hair back, before doing the same for the blonde. Her fingers lingered on the nape of her neck, making Quinn sigh.

The bath was finally ready. Even though it was lukewarm, its temperature had the gift to mellow the ambient air and the heat that had slowly accumulated in the apartment. Rachel first slipped in the water, plunging her long legs in and leaning back against one of the edges, before gesturing to Quinn to join her. She complied without a word.

What sounded like a moan mixed with a gasp of surprise escaped from her throat at the feeling of Rachel's body pressed intimately against hers, of the caress of the water on her bare skin, of the thighs stroking hers, of the breasts pushing against her back.

She searched for the brunette's hand, that she tenderly squeezed.

For long minutes they stayed like this, enjoying the quietness and the closeness of their bodies. It was one of the aspects of their relationship that had surprised as well as delighted Quinn; they could communicate without a word. They could have conversations, as the most of the people, but they didn't feel the need to fill the silences that rhythmed their actions.

The calm was comfortable and comforting, sometimes even more that the words they could exchange.

Quinn felt Rachel's mouth on her neck, and the tips of her fingers stroking her ribs, exploring the protuberance of her hipbone, the outside of her thigh, before resting her hand on her abdomen.

Quinn never felt loved so tenderly.

Carefully, she turned her head so she could observe the brunette's face, which reflected all the adoration she had for her. She couldn't stop herself and laid a kiss on her lips, then pressed her forehead against hers.

She could feel her slow breath on her neck, and it made her admit in a sweet voice what she was thinking about for a while.

"I would have liked to meet you sooner."

Rachel smiled, slipped one of her hand on her pink cheek, leaving minuscule drops of water. "Then the war would have torn us apart," she answered on the same tone. "We wouldn't have been reunited."

Then she added, after a second of silence: "It's because you saved me that we had the chance to meet. It is thanks to you and your courage if we're here together, today, inside of this tiny bathtub."

The blonde laughed but didn't say a thing; she would rather not think about a time when her apartment was empty when she wouldn't have met the small Jew. Yet, she could be taken back from her every time, anytime, without being prepared to this eventuality. She didn't know if she could ever get back to a life without Rachel in it.

"I'm not heroic, Rachel," she said in a lower voice. "I may have saved you, but people are still dying outside. Millions of innocents lose their freedom, lose their family, lose their life. I don't know if..."

"You saved one person among so many others," the brunette cut her off by clasping her fingers. "One amongst billions. You could have done nothing and gone on with your life as usual, but that wasn't what you chose to do. You chose to help a Jew, a woman not better than the others, not smarter, not essential to humanity. You took a woman under your wing without knowing who she was."

She paused, taking the time to fix Quinn with her look and to trace the hollows and the curves of her face with the tips of her fingers, brushing it as if she was afraid to break her.

"It's the bravest thing that somebody could have done, and you did it."

They kissed until the water turned cold.

* * *

The radio was playing Vera Lynn's sweet, intoxicating voice, singing to soldiers and their family, comforting their soul, giving them hope for a second or forever.

Quinn enjoyed listening to the BBC because of this. The songs played were mostly written and composed especially for the soldiers on the front, to give courage to the troops, but also to appease the worried parents, in a way. To reassure the children, the brothers and the sisters about the future of their loved one, to promise them that they'll be back soon, healthy and that everything would be alright.

She obviously knew that it was unlikely that it would happen like this, at least in general. And yet, she kept on humming those verses that warmed up her body, which eased her fears for an instant, and she was every time pleasantly surprised to perceive Vera Lynn's voice, the Andrews Sisters's and Ethel Waters's, Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey's round and deep and disarming notes.

Rachel seemed to share her musical tastes — if she judged by her constant hummings that sounded more or less like English, and by the light smile that stretched her mouth every time a sweet melody filled the living room, and Quinn never got tired of her approximate murmurs or her angelic voice.

The young Parisian wondered for a while (to be honest, since she had heard Rachel sing) if she had ever learned music, or if she had been a professional back in time.

At last, her curiosity won over her patience, and she got up to turn the volume of the radio down when the one we called the Forces Sweetheart finished her song.

"Rachel ?" she asked when she saw her coming out of the kitchen, the melody of _We'll Meet Again_ still at the tip of her lips.

"Yes, Quinn ?" the small woman smiled.

"Can I ask you a question ?"

It seemed to amuse Rachel, because she laughed instantly, before shaking her head and biting her lower lip. She went to sit down on the couch, before patting the place at her left so that Quinn would sit beside her.

"Why are you laughing ?" the latter one asked while settling herself with a raised brow.

"Nothing much, don't worry. It's just that after everything that we got through, everything that we said to each other, you, at least, have the right to ask me a question. I won't be offended, you know."

The dark-haired woman squeezed her hand, and Quinn giggled softly, realizing the absurdity of her question.

"It's true. I just wanted to know for how long you were singing. You have a really beautiful voice."

Rachel blushed at the compliment, a shy smile stretching the corner of her lips. "Thank you. I hadn't taken any singing lesson. I only went to the school choir. But I never sang professionally."

"Professionally ?"

"I mean that it was only a hobby," she said, grinning. "Like you with your books. Sometimes, my dad would play the piano, and he would accompany me when I would sing traditional songs, in Hebrew or French, whether it was during the holidays or after dinner, even if we hadn't anything to celebrate. I just liked to sing for my family, without asking for anything in return."

The petite brunette smiled to Quinn, shrugging vaguely. Her roommate then asked her if she had ever dreamt of performing on stage, music halls, or anywhere else, to which Rachel answered that she was happy with what she had been doing, and as of today, singing only for herself and for Quinn was giving her all the joy she needed.

"Good," the blonde replied while trying to hide her flushed cheeks. Then she added, after a bit of reflection: "How was it, living with your parents? It's not common to have two fathers."

"It's true," Rachel admitted. "We weren't a very conventional family, to say the least. That's why we avoided the crowded places, the urban areas, where lots of people could watch us and judge us, criticizing our lifestyle, as they said. As I already told you, when I was a child, my dads have decided to move into our grandparents house when they died. To live in a small village near the mountains was drawing less attention, and that's part of why they had wanted to leave the city."

"I apologize if I appear rude, but I was wondering... how could you have two fathers? I mean... biologically speaking ?"

At the embarrassed look that Quinn had, her brows furrowed and wrinkling her nose by concentration, Rachel let out a small laugh. She squeezed her hand, still in hers, to show her that she wasn't offended by the question.

It was true that having two men as parents brought curiosity and questions from people that were tolerant enough to be interested.

"It's a pretty simple story, actually. I'm the daughter of my father Hiram, and of my mother, who still was his wife back then. I didn't meet her because she died shortly after I was born. My father raised me on his own for a few years, and never thought about marriage or about taking a childminder to take care of me. We have always been very close. Then one day, he came home with a man, that he introduced to me as my uncle, and he said that he would live with us for a while. Of course, I had never heard about this uncle before, but I didn't say anything. We got along well right away. When my father wasn't here, it was Jacob that took care of me, like his own daughter."

"The rest is easy to guess. When my father judged me old enough to learn the truth, he told me. I already suspected it, actually. My father and Jacob, who's the one I call my dad, always seemed very happy, cooking together, laughing all the time, giving each other knowing smiles or heavy looks that were far from brotherly. We were a real family, a family like the others, awfully happy. Unfortunately, if this family seemed normal to me, it wasn't for the rest of the world. Rumors spread quickly in big cities. My dad often told me that he never felt at ease with all those eyes stuck on his back, those critics on his lifestyle he had supposedly chosen."

"That's also why we decided to move. My grandparents lived in a small house, in Austria, that we could have had at their death. As strange as it seems, we were less pointed out in a little village of around a hundred of inhabitants. It's perhaps because we knew fewer people and that no one had really wanted to get to know us. I hadn't had any real friend, only my two dads, but it was enough. It was enough for them too, by the way. They would tell me that I was their beloved daughter and that nobody would ever change that."

Rachel smiled gloomily, probably remembering the memories she had made over time.

Quinn didn't dare disturb her. She probably missed her family terribly, she thought, like she missed Frannie. But, while she knew that her sister, despite all the threats, was still alive, nothing was less certain for the two men that had raised the woman whom she fell in love with.

Her chest constricted as she realized that Rachel could perhaps never sing again while her dad played the piano and that she could never wish good night to her parents, or tell them that she loved them.

Without realizing it, the thought that terrified her the most crossed the barrier of her lips.

"Rachel... When the war will be over, you will meet your family again, won't you ?"

Her voice broke without her being aware of it. She must as well know right away if she was going to lose Rachel when the war will be over. If the war would ever end.

But Rachel didn't say this determined and nostalgic "yes" that she had so often imagined pronounced by her strong voice. Instead, she looked at her, with her expressive and tender eyes, and she said words that the young blonde would never have thought she could hear one day.

"Quinn, you are my family."

Quinn only noticed her tears when Rachel wiped her damp cheeks with her thumb, then she saw the young woman's brown eyes shining in the light of the afternoon. Rachel smiled softly, and Quinn did the same.

In the background, she could distinguish Sister Rosetta Tharpe's timber bursting into a traditional song, a gospel mixed with blues and guitar chords, but nothing could have masked Rachel's whisper when she said that she loved her.

Quinn smiled, swallowed the remainder of her fear before responding on the same tone, shaking and sure of herself.

"I love you too."

* * *

 _Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,  
Of dumps so dull and heavy  
The fraud of men was ever so  
Since summer first was leafy._

 _— William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing._


	15. Chapter 15

It has been almost two months since they hadn't seen Mercedes, and to see her again was a relief mixed with joy for Rachel and Quinn.

They lived a few meters above her apartment, and yet they hadn't had the occasion to share a moment together at the end of May. Quinn tried to apologize, saying that it was her fault if she hadn't visited her friend for all this time, because she had to look after Rachel and didn't want another incident to happen. But of course, Mercedes didn't want to hear a single thing. She said that she understood her reasons, and the blonde believed her, even though she still felt guilty for having neglected her friendship with Mercedes only for safety reasons.

Only to be with Rachel, every hour of the night and the day, to be sure that nothing bad would happen to her (or, in the most extreme case, that she had the same fate as hers, taken away together in the Gestapo's bottomless net).

Mercedes and Sam greeted them with open arms, literally. It had been delicious, both lovely and reassuring, to feel the young woman's strong corpulence and the tall blond's size under their arms.

The two lodgers on the third floor were enjoying those short and powerful embraces. To know that the feeling of absence and distance was shared was a strange consolation for them.

Rachel looked at Sam, who was talking about recipes with her roommate — or rather, her girlfriend, her lover, as she should get used to calling her, as strange and weird it seemed — when she was distracted by a hand that came to rest on her shoulder, and an honest smile stretching full lips.

"I'm glad to see that you have regained colors, Rachel," Mercedes said while examining her with her piercing, sweet gaze. "And some weight. You seem in better shape that all of us."

The small brunette chuckled, bit her lip while responding shy thanks and a clumsy compliment that made the young Caribbean woman laugh. She shrugged it off with her hand and made her come to her apartment, where they were quickly followed by Sam and Quinn.

This apartment had, since the very first time she saw it, amazed her senses. Rachel felt like there was always something cooking or stewing in the kitchen, and the smell of vegetables steaming mixed with the smell of more or less known spices were filling the living room.

She has always felt welcomed here, even though she rarely used of this honor.

She sat down on the sofa, which was next to the wall, and Quinn soon took a place beside her, making deliberately her fingers slide on the back of her hand. The brunette felt herself shivering under this chaste and discreet gesture, and shot a rapid look at her.

Neither Sam nor Mercedes seemed to have seen what just happened under their eyes. Only Quinn wore a smirk, shy and mischievous, which Rachel mimicked while blushing.

The couple settled in front of the two women on chintz-covered armchairs, which appeared as old as the building and its foundations.

A conversation quickly began between the four of them, with topics as various as anecdotal, as he last book Sam has got from his family, the new restrictions imposed on homes, in particular on the ration cards, or the still present power cuts.

Time passed quickly. The sun began to set down but stayed high enough, warming the rooms in which its rays passed. When the natural light turned orange and the sky became somber, Mercedes proposed to her guests to stay for dinner. They were prompt to agree.

Food always tasted better when it was shared.

Sam and his girlfriend went to get the meals while Quinn and Rachel set the table. It was at this moment that the small Jew realized that this apartment never missed life, that there was no room for the silence here. The cutlery clinked against the plates, the pots bubbled and the pans knocked together; then, when the food was brought and that everyone was settled and the graces were said, the talking started again almost instantly, while the food was chewed and digested in a true bliss.

Her and Quinn weren't as loud, she thought; perhaps because they rarely had a visit, or was it simply a mere coincidence, Rachel couldn't explain it.

Obviously, four persons that got along well and that had things to tell were more talkative and extrovert when they got together, sharing a meal or one hour during which they talked about everything and anything.

Yet, the third-floor apartment seemed to her more tranquil, quieter, while the second floor one swarmed with movement and laughter and agitation.

Rachel first thought that it was because of the layout of the rooms. While Mercedes and Sam's living room was lit up by the sun in the afternoon, Quinn's was oriented in a way that it got the flavors of the soft morning rays.

Then she wondered if the fact that Quinn's apartment was so calm came from the fact that Quinn was calm. She never raised her voice, she was never in a hurry to do some business, and she barely held conversations for more than a quarter of an hour. It didn't bother the dark-haired woman, however; she got used to the peaceful personality of her partner, enjoying even better her evocative silences and bashful murmurs, her discreet gestures like the brushing of a hand against the skin.

Talking wasn't the only way to communicate, Quinn had well understood it.

The dinner was copious and stretched until the arrival of the first lit up candles on the candelabrum.

We offered them the last cup of green mint tea at about ten o'clock. If they had some, they would have probably smoked cigarettes until dawn, but tobacco was rare and expensive, and they didn't need it since they had tea.

When they got ready to leave them, Mercedes made her two neighbors promise not to wait as long before visiting her again. Sam slipped some documents into Quinn's hand, and words of hope in Rachel's ear.

They got back home, exhausted and happy, after goodbyes that extended on the doorstep, at the foot of the staircase.

It was only after they closed the door of their apartment that the blonde allowed herself to take Rachel's hand, pulling her toward her, before kissing her cheekbone flushed by the emotion while laughing softly.

"Why do I get your kisses ?" the smaller one whispered while trying to hide her shyness under her brown curls. Quinn moved her hair away from her face and said, without losing her smile, that she was just feeling happy.

No immediate danger was threatening the solid, fragile balance of their everyday life. They had food, they had running water, gas and electricity, a roof over their head, friends that loved them and cared about them. They had a stable, calm and powerful relationship, that gave them a new breath of life every day, embellishing their days through a gesture that seemed insignificant, a word slipped in the ear, an arm sneaking under the covers to settle in a familiar, comfortable place.

But at this instant, Quinn only wanted to enjoy the fact that nothing threatened them (and perhaps she thought, at the same moment, about Brittany's words, about a possible liberation of France, and about all the consequences of this freedom recovered, the possibilities it would bring in the future). She threaded her fingers through Rachel's, drew her toward the middle of the living room as she took off her leather shoes, then went to put a disk on the turntable.

When she turned back, she saw the brunette frowning, puzzled, but she had taken her shoes off anyway which she had neatly put near the front door.

She came closer to Rachel as jazz chords filled the silence of the night, forewarning of blue tomorrows and endless freedom for whom heard them, then Quinn saw the realization making itself on her face.

Two hands joined, two others rested on clothed shoulder blades, as the couple swayed from right to left, swinging to the slow and cheerful rhythm of a success from the end of the thirties, sliding their bare feet on the worn out parquet. Rachel didn't know how to dance, neither did Quinn; it didn't stop them from continuing their disordered movement on the floor, or from hugging each other tight while they gazed at each other, a grin at the corner of their lips, enjoying and cherishing a moment of liberty and simplicity as if it was the last one.

But it wasn't the last one. They wouldn't permit it. Quinn couldn't accept that somebody took away from her a joy, a happiness she just barely had a taste of.

And, if Brittany said the truth, they wouldn't have to worry about a possible turnaround in the situation anymore. They would have their freedom again, and Rachel could accompany her in her lazy walks through Paris. She could buy clothes that she would have chosen herself, go around the marketplaces of Rochechouart and Saint-Ouen, buy disks she wanted to listen to, furniture that would go and find their place in the tiny living room of the apartment and replace the old ones, eaten up by mold, or find a bike to go with Quinn on her rides on the long avenues. They could even leave the city for its rural surroundings, and give themselves over to outings they would make every week, riding on paths or through the Bois de Vincennes for hours.

It seemed almost too good to be true.

But nothing could have stopped Quinn from hoping, a bit more each day, that the war would finally end. It would mean much more than a simple freedom recovered, for herself as for Rachel.

* * *

At the end of May, their cupboards were empty yet again.

Contrary to last month, Sue Sylvester didn't appear miraculously on their doorstep, ready to offer them plenty of food for free.

Quinn would have wanted to postpone the date when she must leave her home and Rachel to refill her fridge, but she knew that she couldn't indefinitely fight time, fight hunger.

She knew that she would worry, rightly or wrongly, as soon as she would cross her door to find herself in the familiar streets of the town, swarming with passersby and soldiers; but Quinn also knew that if people had reasons to suspect that she was hiding a Jew at her home, we wouldn't wait for her to be gone to pay her a courtesy call.

If Rachel had been discovered, she would already be on her way to an unknown destination in a wagon.

She mustn't worry. (Of course, she was incapable of following her own rule, wondering at every footstep on the paved stones if she shouldn't postpone her visit to Sue to another day and turn around to curl up under the blankets with the little brunette, a book in her hand, two cups of tea on the coffee table, a disk on the turntable before falling asleep in each other's arms.)

Quinn didn't turn around, however; Rachel ordered her while laughing cheerfully, to go and buy food before they starved to death and fought for the last piece of hard bread.

"Will everything be alright? You know that you can go to Mercedes', she'll welcome you instantly."

"Please," the smaller one replied, "it's not like it's the first time that I am alone for one hour in your apartment. I promise you, nothing will happen to me."

Rachel grinned, leaned forward to kiss Quinn quickly before squeezing her hands, a silent guarantee of her security.

There hadn't been a grand gesture of farewell, declarations of love until death or tears impossible to restrain when Quinn got out. They didn't need it because they were sure they would meet again in less than an hour.

The young blonde was, obviously, a little worried, but she wasn't afraid. She only had to ride on the great boulevards until she arrived at Sue's, take what she needed, pay the tall woman and go back the way she had come to get back to Rachel.

She would be undoubtedly here, waiting for her in the middle of the living room, her hands behind her back or in the pockets of her light dress, then she would come to her, kiss her, help her unload her bags and cook dinner, breaking the occasional silence with her laugh and her voice, sliding her fingers through blonde hair while telling her that she had been right, that nothing had happened to her.

And that's exactly how it happened when Quinn got back home.

Rachel had always been right.

* * *

Rachel had the occasion to learn more about Quinn after having asked her a terribly simple question.

Her "how is it that you have money when you're not working" was more innocent than curious, and she would have understood that Quinn wouldn't want to talk about money with her, or that it was too much of a personal question.

Yet, to her surprise, the blonde only smiled before taking off her glasses, rubbing her eyes while putting her book down on her knees, then she focused her attention on Rachel.

"Where do you want me to begin ?" she asked. "Why do I have money, or why am I not working ?"

The dark-haired woman thought for a while, before choosing the second option. It seemed to her, from the very first days of her living with Quinn, more than weird to never see her leave her home except for getting food or visiting her friends. Except for the articles she wrote for a newspaper of the Résistance, she had no occupation. At least, none she knew of.

"To begin with, I don't have a diploma," Quinn said when Rachel had sat down beside her. "I didn't go to school after we moved out, and I didn't study medicine. My father taught me everything I know. In spite of this, I don't have the right to practice professionally, in theory. I must have a diploma to practice, and even though I'd like to treat people and earn a good living through my skills in this field, I can't do it, unless I want to register at the Faculty of medicine of Paris."

"Up to this point, I understand," the brunette smiled. "But you could have chosen another trade, something very different from medicine, couldn't you? Maybe something in relation to... literature ?"

"I could have. I thought about it for a while. But with the start of the war, lots of small stores have been closed or bought back, and the most of the women had to work in ammunition factories, car factories, or tons of other things which will then be sent to the soldiers at the front. It's hard to find a job that isn't in a factory these times. Perhaps Sue had pulled some strings so I wasn't enrolled in, I don't really know. Anyway, I wouldn't have wanted to work there." ("Why" Rachel was silently asking with her eyes, and Quinn answered without hesitation.) "I don't know if I would have been able to make bombs, ammunitions or even cars that would then be used to kill people. It doesn't matter if they're used by French, German or Russian soldiers. A bomb kills. A bullet kills. Without worrying about nationalities. I don't want to become an accomplice of those massacres, have dead people on my conscience, or know that I helped in taking someone's life, innocent or not."

Quinn bit the inside of her cheek, wondering if she should add something. It's the softness of Rachel's hand resting on hers that invited her in going on, in saying what she had on her mind, on the tip of her tongue.

"I don't feel like I am the one who has to fight. Don't be mistaken; I have decided to fight against nazism, even if it's on a small scale and that it has no direct consequences for Hitler's regime or on the current political system. This war should have never happened. Hitler should have never been born. But we can't change the world. He had wanted to invade Europe, and he got the war he had desired for so long. If you want my opinion," she said in a low voice, leaning toward the smaller girl, "we should have done something for a long time. We should have never waited until the end of 1939, wait for this devil to show his true face when we already knew what it was. This war should have never seen the light of day. Never. Unfortunately, that had been the case. I know that we can't change the past or predict the future, but I feel a bit... betrayed, and disappointed at the same time; because of some men that had decided that it still wasn't the time to take measures against the Nazi Germany, here's what happened. A France supposedly free and a Vichy France, a spoiled Poland, a fascist Italy, devastated lands, soldiers sent to the four corners of the Earth. It's..."

The blonde shrugged and sighed, unable to finish her sentence. She has probably been a little carried away, sickened by the vast and disastrous consequences of those two last decades.

Rachel seemed to understand what she had wanted to say, offering her a comforting smile and a few words covered in the hope that all of this madness would end.

"Everything will sort itself out soon," she said softly, gravely, grasping her pale hand. Then she added, as to take a weight off her shoulders, a little of this guilt she shouldn't feel, but also to show her that she understood her choices, "and I know what you mean. You don't have to talk about it."

She didn't know how, but Rachel then found herself in her arms, breathing the smell of mint that her hair was giving off as she hugged her against her. Quinn didn't complain, on the contrary, and embraced her for long minutes that seemed yet too short when she moved back. The taller girl spent a few minutes, as short as the previous ones but that she wouldn't have traded for anything, looking at the one who was watching her, who listened to her, who loved her and who smiled at her without saying a word.

"You didn't ask me how could I have gone without a job and have enough money to live," she suddenly said while lifting her brow.

"No need to ask," Rachel replied with a smirk. "I know that you're going to give me the answer."

"You're so sure of yourself," she laughed while shaking her head. "But you're right. A part of this money is from my parents. Frannie also inherited it. In my opinion, being a spy is really well paid. They could have lived on their savings for the rest of their lives."

"So, you could live on your savings for the rest of your life too? No need to work anymore ?"

"Not for now. As long as I can pay the bills, I don't need to look for a job. And also, it's better to be able to stay at home with you," Quinn concluded with a smile.

* * *

With the beginning of the warm days, the two women had felt like going out, and even though it was unthinkable for Rachel to wander in the streets, for now, she made up for it by visiting her neighbors at least once a week. They sometimes stayed at their home for hours, chatting around a warm drink, or just to make sure that everything was alright.

It made Quinn and Rachel happy. Mercedes and Sam too.

When the sentence fell and France was beginning to be occupied, they had felt like they couldn't trust anyone, not even their baker. Their distrust wasn't unfounded; soon, even in Paris, we heard about the first acts of collaboration and denunciation.

It probably explained why they had a limited number of friends today.

It was enough for them, however; and it was also enough for Quinn. But the young woman wasn't certain that it was enough for Rachel.

Rachel, who hadn't gone outside for almost nine months, who was cloistered in this cramped apartment, on he third floor of a dilapidated building, which only got the light of the day a few hours every morning, and which only had a single bed.

The brunette had been extremely patient and understanding. And, even if she wanted to taste the fresh air, the breezes running in the streets, the paved stones under her shoes, she hadn't said a thing. She had waited. She was waiting. She wasn't asking for the impossible, because it would be a suicide to go outside at the present moment, no matter what was written on her papers or what her clothing displayed.

The soldiers would know. The passersby would know. Everyone would know that she wasn't from here, that she was a clandestine, that she was Jewish. She could even get killed.

Quinn couldn't risk her life. At the same time, her guilt concerning Rachel's captivity was growing, was eating her away until the bones, but she couldn't do a thing to ease it.

Of course, Rachel's words were making her better. They were taking this burden off her shoulders, this oppression of her chest, this feeling that made her sick and which, sometimes, kept her awake for a few hours, in the quietness of the night, when the brunette was lying peacefully in her arms.

She wasn't really guilty of this situation, in truth; yet she felt like it was her own fault.

One day, when she went to retrieve her mail, an envelope caught her attention. Quinn quickly went back upstairs, curious and surprised, wondering who could have left it in her mailbox.

Rachel was in the kitchen, probably cooking lunch, as Quinn sat down on the couch and opened the envelope, which resulted in a simple sheet of paper falling on her knees.

The letter was short, no more than three sentences. Quinn read it, then, blinking, read it again.

She couldn't believe what she was reading.

Nevertheless, the words were there, under her eyes, written with black ink that had stained the paper. The young woman read the letter again, soaking her brain with words as broad as varied, like "landing", "yesterday", "Eisenhower" and "Normandy".

The emotion was beginning to rise within her; however, she pulled herself together, wanting to be sure about this information unleashed in front of her, and that was why she turned on the radio.

The voice that welcomed her when she turned on the set finished to convince her.

 _" ...ont commencé à déferler à partir des rivages de la vieille Angleterre. Devant ce dernier bastion de l'Europe à l'ouest fut arrêté naguère la marée de l'oppression allemande. Voici qu'il est aujourd'hui la base de départ de l'offensive de la liberté. La France, submergée depuis quatre ans, mais non point réduite, ni vaincue, la France est debout pour y prendre part... " *_

It was impossible to believe. Charles de Gaulle himself was announcing it, on the radio, from London, to thousands of people — perhaps even millions.

Quinn listened to the twangy voice of the general with a distracted ear, dwelling on the news again and again. The allied troops had landed in Normandy, the previous night. She couldn't wrap her head around this idea, and yet!

It could only be the truth.

Certainly intrigued by the involved speech broadcasted at this hour and by the volume of the radio, Rachel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel hanging on the belt of her dress, and she froze upon seeing the blonde, her face buried in her hands, sobbing and inhaling noisily. She didn't realize that the brown-haired girl had joined her.

"Quinn ?" she hesitated as she came closer. The blonde only reacted when she put a hand on her shoulder, slowly looking up before her tears intensified. Not knowing what to do in this case, Rachel drew her close to her, holding her waist with her arms and whispering sweet nothings in her ears, hoping to calm the young woman.

It only worked for an instant, however; but as she stepped back to ask Quinn what could have put her in this state, something white caught her eyes. Rachel reached out, picking up the letter that had fallen at her feet and, giving Quinn an uncomprehending look, began to read. Her eyes widened as she kept on reading.

Her pupils soon landed again on Quinn's, and the blonde's look confirmed what she had just read. At this instant, she noticed the voice coming out of the radio, the speech pronounced, and the tears came to her without she was able to stop them.

We were finally there. Rachel had lived — and survived — long enough to see this day.

She quickly took the blonde back in her arms, hugging her forcefully, laughing, sobbing, soaking her neck with her tears and her cheek with her kisses, wanting no more than to share this moment by being as close to her as she could possibly be, pulling her even closer to her body, smoothing her dress with her hand which paled with the effort.

Rachel felt like succumbing to so many emotions.

But Quinn was here, preventing her from consuming, from fainting, by stroking her hair; she was shaking with the force of her sobs and her laughs, happy to finally see the light after so many years spent in a tunnel.

It was Tuesday 6 June 1944.

* * *

* "...have begun to pour from the coasts of old England. Here, at this last bastion of Western Europe, the tide of German oppression was once halted. Now it is the starting-point of an offensive for freedom. France, overrun for the last four years but never reduced or defeated, is on her feet to play her part."

* * *

 _La bataille de France a commencé. Il n'y a plus, dans la nation, dans l'Empire, dans les armées, qu'une seule et même volonté, qu'une seule et même espérance. Derrière le nuage si lourd de notre sang et de nos larmes voici que reparaît le soleil de notre grandeur !_

 _._

 _The battle of France has begun. Throughout the nation, the Empire and the armed forces there is now only one determination, only one hope shared by all. Behind the cloud, so heavy with our blood and tears, behold! - the sun of our greatness is shining forth once again!_

 _—_ _Charles de Gaulle._

* * *

 **(Wasn't that man simply majestic? A great man, to put it simply.)**


	16. Chapter 16

**Thanks for your reviews, it really makes me feel like I'm doing something good and worth reading. I hope you'll enjoy the next part!**

* * *

Everything had changed in a split second.

Thanks to a small bit of paper, to a broadcasted speech, all the possibilities that Quinn had considered, the future she had thought about again and again, all the probabilities of a sudden liberation had been shattered.

Because from this day on, it was only a matter of hours or weeks before Europe and liberty got back on their feet and defeated nazism and fascism once and for all.

The wave of emotions overwhelmed her for hours, until the end of the day, and she was almost certain that any person who had heard of the latest news had felt the same.

Including Rachel.

The Jew had cried with her for a long moment, sharing the same feelings, as diverse and powerful they were. Perhaps the news of this afternoon had affected her even more, because the possible freedom they implied meant much more for her than for Quinn.

Quinn wasn't daily threatened because of her faith. Quinn didn't have to stay constantly between the four walls of her apartment.

She hoped that this impromptu landing would lead to concrete actions, and quick. So that Rachel would have back her stolen freedom, her rights, everything that we took away from her without doing anything to deserve this treatment.

Their sobs and their tears mingled together for a long time, until the two women had enough presence of mind to dry their cheeks and digest the information of the day. They laughed when they saw the pathetic state in which they had put themselves; dresses creased by embraces that lasted and lasted, soaked by tears; hairstyles undone and disheveled hair, red eyes, faces flushed by so many transports.

"A glass of water ?" the blonde proposed whit a feeble smile. She was breathing with much effort, tired, but she looked really happy. Rachel agreed, waited for her to come back from the kitchen, one glass in each of her hands, and thanked her with a smile.

The smaller one drank it in one gulp, then put it down on the coffee table. She leaned back, resting her head on the back of the couch, and burst into laughter.

"I can't believe it," she chuckled. "It's too good to be true."

Quinn mimicked her posture, sighing when she closed her eyelids, as well as laughing.

"I know. It seems... surrealistic. Completely crazy."

There wasn't room for doubt, yet, the two women knew it. They had both heard Charles de Gaulle on the radio, and read this message which had probably been distributed in all the capital, in the whole France, perhaps even the whole world.

"Brittany knew," Quinn said while turning her head, looking Rachel in the eyes. "She knew that there was going to be a landing. That's what she had wanted to talk to me about."

"Oh. She had guessed right. But I don't remember hearing her say..."

"She hadn't wanted to tell you," Quinn cut her off gently. "I don't know why. This day, when she led me into the kitchen to talk to me about a personal matter, it was to learn me this news. A landing, in France."

Rachel frowned. She remembered this banal day, about Brittany's visit some time after Paris' bombing. Of course, she understood that the two blondes had things to talk about, including things that weren't necessary to say in her presence, whether it was in relation to their work inside the Résistance or other topics.

But to hide such a great new, as important, as optimistic as this one, that would fill anyone with hope and delight? She couldn't find a reason to this.

She would have obviously kept it a secret, if they had told her. Rachel wasn't stupid; she knew that such a great operation was, in general, kept a secret until its launch, to surprise as well the enemies as the citizens. Also, except Quinn, she had nobody in whom she could confide. And if she ever got the idea to shout from her window that such an action would happen soon, she would be in jail in no time, under the passersby's condescending or neutral gaze.

Quinn must have felt what bothered her, because she put her hand on hers while smiling softly at her, understanding and sweet.

"I'm sure that Brittany had her reasons," she said slowly. "As I had mine."

The brunette stayed quiet, waiting for her to go on; that was what Quinn did after getting closer to her.

"They are the same reasons that pushed me into not revealing the information to you," Quinn whispered, unblinking. "She wanted to preserve you. She knew that you would be happy upon hearing the news, that it would give you hope. But she also knew that if the landing never occurred, that if her sources had been unfortunately wrong or if the operation had been canceled, you would have been devastated. I would have been, too. For years, we had me believe that everything would be over tomorrow, when the situation only got worse. One more or one less disillusion, in the end, it's nothing much. But I think that... I wanted to protect you from this disappointment threatening us."

"How could you have been sure that it would have become a disappointment ?" the brunette asked. "This time, everything could have been different; and we know it today, everything is different."

"It's true. But a month ago, I had no idea. I was convinced that it was yet again another deception, an idealist's dream so that we wouldn't lose hope, only to disappoint us once more. If I had known, I would have told you. Of course I would have told you, Rachel. I was stupid. I should have done it, and not kept quiet about such a great event, on the pretext that I wasn't sure that we were going to be free. On the pretext of protecting you."

Quinn looked down, feeling the shame spreading under her skin upon hearing her own excuses which seemed so ridiculous now that she exposed them to Rachel. However, thin fingers came to lift up her chin, and dark eyes dove into hers, holding the contact during long seconds.

Rachel smiled at her.

"You mustn't feel guilty, Quinn. I understand your reasons. And," she added with a shrug, "it's in the past now. We don't have to talk about it anymore. It's different, now."

She was right, as usual. Dwelling on those days that predated the official announcement of the landing would be useless. Only the present time mattered.

Slowly, with a smile that got bigger little by little, Quinn drew Rachel to her, putting the palm of her hand against her cheek and laying a long kiss on her lips. After a dozen of seconds, she pulled apart, her cheeks a bit more red than a minute before, while keeping on caressing her face with the tips of her fingers.

"I had been so lucky to meet you."

The small dark-haired woman grinned while the same redness as Quinn's settled on her skin. Her words and her acts (especially, her touches, her kisses, loving and tender) had always had this effect on her.

But the young Parisian's smile changed into something sad, melancholic, and she said in a low, fragile voice:

"For a little while, everything has been so... perfect, between us, that I feel like everything we are living for months is only a dream, and that I'm going to wake up any moment, alone, without you."

"I can assure you that it's not a dream," Rachel replied squeezing her hands. "It's impossible."

"I''m afraid it's going to happen, however. That one day, you won't be here anymore, that you're going to disappear without a word."

"It won't happen, Quinn."

"It could," she said while looking down. "If you ever decide that you were bored, that your life here didn't meet your expectations, or that in the end you missed Austria too much, that you missed your family too much, and that you wanted to find them again. Perhaps you would get tired of Paris, or of me."

Quinn sniffled weakly, biting her lip. She had maybe said too much, or too much too soon. Not even a minute ago, Rachel and she were delighted because of the landing, and now she had broken their simple moment of happiness to display her fears, justified or not.

But she knew that their time was limited; the quicker France was freed, the quicker Rachel would go back to her home.

She couldn't bear this thought.

She was strangely persuaded, despite the past guarantee of the young Jew, and despite the optimistic part of her mind that was shouting to her to believe in their relationship, to not give up. Quinn wasn't giving up, however; she was just terrified by this alternative.

"Quinn ?" Rachel said with an undefinable voice.

Quinn didn't move.

"Quinn, look at me."

When she finally looked up and met Rachel's gaze, she was afraid she was going to cry. She was feeling so many things for this woman, this little brunette with big eyes and an angelic voice, and she wondered with difficulty if it was the last time that she could look at her that way, without being disturbed by anyone, free to live and to love each other, simply.

Rachel leaned forward to kiss her, deeply, feeling her lungs burning, until they naturally pulled apart with a deep inhalation. She still squeezed her fingers between hers, and clasped them again before starting to talk.

"I promise you before God, Quinn, that I will never leave you. Never," she repeated while emphasizing her words with an inflexible look. "I love you. I would never want to live somewhere else. I don't mind that your apartment is ridiculously small or that Paris is so sad, since there is no other place I could like. And do you know why, Quinn ? Because you're not at some other place. I don't think I could survive somewhere where you're not. I know that I couldn't stand it. Because without you, I am nothing. I would only be a Jewish woman of no importance, a useless woman, excluded from society. But with you, I am so much more than that."

As Rachel didn't continue, the blonde sniffled, feeling the tears flow back under her eyelids but she couldn't stop them. She was surprised — and, in a way, terribly eased — to feel one of the brunette's hand leaving hers to rest on her cheek, moving apart a few strands of blonde hair from her face, before grasping her shoulders to pull her to her.

Quinn couldn't stop herself from crying softly on her shoulder, burying her face in the fabric of her dress, as Rachel stroked her hair with one hand and was drawing her impossibly closer with the other, resting between her shoulder blades.

She thought that the dark-haired woman was one of the only persons — or maybe the only one — who could make her cry without her feeling shameful for displaying so awkwardly her emotions, and only by telling her that she would never leave her.

She felt incredibly stupid to have thought the contrary, when Rachel had already assured her that she won't leave, that she was, from now on, her sole family.

Her tears resumed with greater intensity while her body was shaken by silent sobs. Rachel was still slowly stroking her skin, her hair, murmuring words of love and comfort in her ear.

To feel the petite brunette against her, without a centimeter between them, was allowing her to stay calm, to be anchored. Her closeness and her soft, warm voice enabled her to collect herself, and she lifted her head from Rachel's shoulder to dry the remaining of her tears with a trembling hand.

Quinn looked up and smiled weakly at Rachel, as to reassure her, promise her that everything was going to be alright.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have left myself get carried away."

Rachel smiled, got closer to erase the rest of humidity on her cheeks, then kept Quinn's face between her hands.

"I understand that you're afraid," the brunette said, still looking at her. "Really. As you can understand, I'm sure, that I am afraid that one day, armed soldiers are going to take me away from you. It terrifies me, more than anything else. But it won't happen, because I won't leave, and because you'll never let anybody harm me."

On these words, Rachel kissed her again, conveying her feelings through this simple gesture that was now a part of their daily life. When the brunette moved apart and let a panting, blushing Quinn, she smirked before leaning toward her.

"Promise me that we will stay together, no matter what happens," the smaller one asked while keeping on kissing her partner, peppering her skin with kisses that gradually moved until they reached her neck, following her jawline and the shell of her ear.

Quinn was quick to promise her so, losing herself little by little between her smell of soap and her touch of silk.

She couldn't refuse her anything, and she didn't want to, anyway.

From the night until the first light of the sunrays, Quinn did nothing but kiss Rachel, on all the areas of her body she could reach, and Rachel gave her in return each kiss, each caress, each brush, with a curious mix of delight and innocence.

They felt like they had reached a new kind of connection with the certainty that they would never be separated — at least, not by their own will. They would never allow it, and to know it was like their feelings had multiplied by ten, refusing to stay interiorized or restricted any longer.

Even though they had contained them, sometimes with difficulty, during the months when they had been sure they only had a few days to live before someone discovered them, knowing that soon they were going to be completely and irrevocably free had broken the rope that gripped and suffocated them.

Because they were feeling free, they felt like they were invulnerable, emancipated from the laws hindering their daily life.

Quinn was currently kissing Rachel's stomach and abdomen when the latter thought that she could well spend the rest of her life with the blonde. She was already seeing herself living until she was fifty years old between the four walls of this parisian apartment, tiny but comfortable, with Quinn by her side, ready to hold her hand and overcome with her all the obstacles that would come their way.

She felt herself getting lost in her thoughts about the future, about living together and long walks under the summer sun when she was suddenly brought back into reality by feeling Quinn kissing her thighs, making her tongue slide on her tanned skin, her lips wandering around her knee, lingering where her muscles were responding to her touch and trembling under her mouth, without Rachel could do anything to control them.

The brunette exhaled by her nose, shutting tight her eyelids when she felt those same lips going a bit higher, marking the inside of her thighs that quivered under so much care. Her hands gripped the sheets, which crinkled under her closed fingers.

"Rachel ?"

An anxious voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Rachel opened her eyes and put them on Quinn's touching, loving, understanding ones. Quinn was blushing, only wearing her fragrance of fresh mint, and gazed at her as if she owned all the secrets of the world.

For a second, the small dark-haired woman was overwhelmed by her smell; a scent which calmed her down, which eased the erratic beatings of her heart and surrounded her with a feeling of serenity, of security. A scent she would always link with Quinn, strong but not aggressive, sweet and intoxicating at once.

It was probably at this instant, or just after that the blonde, on an infinite sweet tone, told her "we can stop here, if you wish" with a slight smirk, that Rachel made her choice, and she was certain it was the right one.

She would spend the rest of her life, and everything that would follow, by Quinn Fabray's side.

Rachel answered by shaking her head and biting her lip to prevent the smile that threatened to take all the room available on her face, then she loosened her grip on the sheets to put her hand on her alabaster cheek, caressing her cheekbone and the nape of her neck, playing with the thin hair she found there. Quinn leaned down to kiss her, stroking her skin with her warm breath, before going lower, peppering her chest and her ribs with amorous kisses.

Some time later, while she was catching her breath and getting back on Earth, Rachel thought that she had surely just seen a bit of paradise, and that if that was what the life together, with Quinn, involved, she would be happy to begin now and to never leave her.

* * *

Two days after the news of the landing (which had been considerably broadcasted that it was impossible not to have heard about it), Paris seemed to contain its joy.

There had been no excess in the streets, at least none that Quinn had known of, or public announcement, and she hadn't seen any poster in the capital when she had been out for a few minutes, just after getting her mail.

Paris was calm, in complete contradiction to the fights taking place a few kilometers away from here, in Normandy, and that slowly got closer to the city.

This landing still seemed so utopian and unreal that cries of joy could still be heard, at odd and random moments, coming from their apartment.

Sometimes, Rachel and her began laughing, for no reason whatsoever, at any time of the day; and often, one of them joined the other, until their ribs hurt and they had tears in their eyes.

It was good to be able to express their happiness this way. The new of the six June 1944 had given them this slight bit of hope they missed, the one they had lost years ago, the one that would allow them to go one living and take a weight off their shoulders.

Sam knocked, in the middle of the afternoon, at their door to hug his two neighbors with all his force, laughing and smiling as to break his jaw.

The three of them shared a few words of hope in an appeased atmosphere, as if the veil that usually blurred them and prevented them from believing anything concrete had finally dispersed, leaving behind a vague reminder of what had been their lives those last five years.

Quinn wondered for a second if she should tell Sam about her relationship with Rachel. Mercedes had got her doubts more or less confirmed, so why not tell him too? He had the right to know, after all. He was her best friend, her neighbor, as well as Rachel's. He would know about it sooner or later.

Yet she didn't say a thing to him. She felt like it wasn't the moment for this.

And maybe that she was a bit afraid of how he could react.

What Quinn didn't know either, it was that Rachel had also thought about it. Her, who had lived hidden for so long, and who still was to this day, didn't want to live in the shadow anymore. It was exhausting.

Sam left after a few minutes, promising the two women to invit them soon for a dinner (a real reception, this time) when the war would be well and truly over. He added, with a wink, that it could happen very soon, sooner than they thought.

Unsurprisingly, Quinn easily trusted him on this point.

The days went by swimmingly. Strangely, there had been no police raid, no search of every shop and house, not even the reinforcement of the patrols in town after the announcement of the landing in Normandy. There still were soldiers wandering in the streets, hammering the paved stones with their heavy boots, keeping an inflexible, heartless eye on everything, and tanks striding across the largest avenues, the ones near the Louvre and the Bastille, the Concorde and the Champs-Élysées.

The blonde was quite happy, and even relieved to live in a district like Montmartre. A steep locality of Paris, perhaps not very welcoming at first sight, and most of all away from the great institutions, assaulted by the nazi generals and the so-called politicians governing the France.

It was pretty cold for a few days, not more than a dozen of degrees Celsius, and even more when the night fell, which prompted the blonde to take out of her closet one of the huge knitted blankets.

We could hear the wind howling at the window, and see some branches of the trees bending under this bustle.

Quinn quickly slipped in bed, where Rachel had already taken her place and was reading a book, before spreading the blanket on the duvet. Its weight was obviously restraining them from moving too much, but also offered them a significant warmth that would avoid their extremities to become numb.

The young woman sighed with contentment while settling more comfortably against the small Jew's arm, nestling her face there while she put a leg between hers, like she usually did.

Satisfied with her position, Quinn caught Rachel's hand and kissed it, then each of her knuckles; she felt more than heard the brunette letting out a small chuckle, then Rachel tangled her fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp and making her sigh.

The blonde felt herself drifting slowly toward sleep, lulled by the sound of the pages turning from time to time, and by the surreal quietness of her environment. The apartment was terribly silent, the street even more; nobody ventured in it as soon as the sun set down, and no motor noise or wheels pressing on the paved stones could be heard.

The light of the bedside lamp didn't bother her, she could easily sleep under every circumstance (even in the broad light of the day), with the only exception that she needed calm. Quinn would startle awake at any sound; that was what had happened when Rachel had had nightmares, and when the bombing happened — but after all, who could stay asleep when bombs were exploding above the roof ?

After a few minutes, Quinn felt the dark-haired woman moving aside, she heard a light sound followed by a clicking that put the room in the dark, then Rachel lied down beside her, her back against her chest, clasping the blonde's hand between hers and resting this jumble of pale and tanned flesh on her stomach.

Unconsciously, she hugged the little brunette a bit more against her, wanting to let no space between their closely interlocked bodies.

"Quinn ?" a questioning voice whispered.

The young woman responded by a murmur. She opened her eyes, was welcomed by a submerging darkness and the sketching of Rachel's body barely perceptible, illuminated by a light coming from the outside. After a beat, she closed them again. She didn't need to see her in moments like this one; knowing that Rachel was in her arms was enough.

Also, Quinn trusted her. She knew that Rachel wouldn't do the same mistake as the first day. She wouldn't run away — never.

"Did you parents know," Rachel continued in the same low and soft tone, "that you would rather have relations with girls ?"

Despite the seriousness of the question, Quinn couldn't help but giggle. Perhaps it was Rachel's innocence that had provoked this slightly absurd reaction from her. It was one of her character traits that she adored, and that made Rachel who she was.

"Maybe," she answered. "I never told them, however. I couldn't have stood them disowning me."

"And Frannie ?"

"I am positively certain that she knows about my homosexuality," she smiled in the dark. "I haven't told her either, but we lived together, alone, for a little while, and I think that she could have caught sight of me once or twice in company with a woman. She probably figured it out on her own."

The smaller one didn't reply for a moment, lost in her thoughts, until Quinn gently squeezed her hand and asked her if there was a reason for her questions.

Rachel shrugged a little.

"Perhaps. I mean, yes, there is a reason. I was wondering..." she began before suddenly stopping.

"I'm listening, honey."

"This girl whom you were living with, she's... you two were together, that's right ?"

Quinn slowly nodded, still uncertain about what Rachel wanted to talk about.

"What happened to her ?"

"She left. I mean, it seems pretty obvious."

"I mean," the brunette said, incomprehension and shyness blending in her voice, "why did she leave you ? You're Quinn, for God's sake. Quinn Fabray. You're the most wonderful person I know. Nobody could ever think of leaving you."

The blonde blushed strongly, and she was glad that Rachel couldn't see how her cheeks were burning. A little embarrassed, she murmured a bashful thank you, kissed Rachel's shoulder blade through her white cotton shirt before resting her head on the unique pillow they shared.

"If you don't want to answer, I would understand," the young Jew added. "It's probably not a good time to talk about it."

"Don't worry," Quinn whispered. "I've just... kept this story inside me for years. I don't really know where to begin. (Rachel squeezed her fingers affectionately.) It's a common story, actually. Nothing really extravagant. When Frannie and I moved in Paris, the war hadn't begun yet. However my sister traveled a lot, in France and abroad. She never liked enclosed spaces, and she probably felt cramped in this apartment. She often left, for long times, sometimes for months, then she would come back for a few weeks, and would go back as soon as she could. It's undoubted because of her travels that she had never known — or at least, never told me that she knew — that I've met a girl, a young woman, with whom I had a brief liaison at the end of the decade.

"Everything went very fast. Firstly, there was a first meeting, then others, then the beginning of a friendship, and before I realized it, we had crossed this line. I don't remember telling myself that it was wrong, that what we were feeling toward each other deserved hanging. It was just... a relationship like any other one, in my opinion. I don't think I loved her; I really liked her, she was a very dear friend, but I couldn't feel something stronger. Well, it's not really important. Yet, I cared about her more than anything. We spent a bit of time together, hiding our true relationship to the others. It was difficult, because she couldn't stand hiding. She wanted to shout in the streets, to the passersby, to the strangers, who she was. Months had passed, then the war had been declared. Everybody thought, including me, that the French were going to defeat the German, that it would only be a matter of weeks. I was dumbfounded when I learned that the French Army has been defeated, and that Hitler and his Nazis were going to occupy France.

"She didn't stand it. She wanted to leave, flee the country, flee the continent because she didn't want to lose her freedom. I couldn't argue with her. But what she especially didn't want to, it was that someone discovered our liaison. Two women who loved each other, it was inconceivable for the time, for the society; but for the nazis, it was much worse than that. In their mind, we deserved the stake. I think that she was truly and deeply afraid of what we could hear in the streets, all those horrors coming from the East, and that's what made her decide. One day, I knocked on her door without getting an answer. The concierge told me that she just packed up and went, and that there was nothing at her home anymore, not even her furniture. When I asked him if she had left an address, he said she didn't. In his opinion, she would never come back."

"You didn't try to find her ?" Rachel softly asked, grazing her forearm with her nails.

She felt Quinn shrugging, before saying:

"I got over it quite fast, in the end. I guess that I wasn't really in love with her."

Then, Rachel perceived her breath on her ear, her nose stroking her hair and the nape of her neck, and heard her smooth, charming voice.

"But with you, I am, irremediably."

The kiss which followed, at the junction of her neck and her jaw, nearly made her lose her composure.

Rachel was certain, without any doubt, that she would spend the rest of her life with Quinn, and that Quinn probably felt the same sensation, insistent and overwhelming, in her stomach, knotting her throat and suffocating her lungs.

They would never separate.


	17. Chapter 17

**We're getting near the end! Yesterday I went to see Carol in theater. If you can, go watch it. It's breathtaking, beautiful, and I think Patricia Highsmith would have liked this adaptation.**

* * *

"One day, I'd like to visit all of this town. Every monument, from the Tour Eiffel to the royal gardens, and every theater. I would step on every paved stone on every avenue, and I would climb the steps to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica."

Quinn smiled upon hearing Rachel's dreamy voice. The latter had put a chair close to the living room window, and sat down on it so she could watch, after carefully moving the curtain aside, the small part of the street spreading under her eyes, the zinc and slate roofs, the pigeons flying away from time to time and splitting the bluish gray of the sky with their distraught wings, the bit of Sacré-Cœur which stood, proud and immaculate, on Montmartre hill, despite the bombs that had made holes in the district a few weeks ago.

The small brunette didn't care being seen, by passersby or the lodgers of the building across the road; she knew that there was still a risk, but knowing that Quinn was making herself quite discreet, the ones who could see her at her window probably didn't suspect that Rachel wasn't the owner of the apartment.

Also, more than ten meters above the ground, it was unlikely that people would notice her presence, obscured by the thin curtains.

"We could do it together," Quinn continued. "I'll show you around what I already know, and we will discover the rest together."

Rachel turned her head toward the Parisian girl and smiled, almost bashfully, as if this possibility hadn't crossed her mind, but now that it was brought up it seemed the best thing to do.

"I would like that."

Quinn grinned, thinking about the possibilities that the future liberation of Paris and France would bring, which could happen any time now. She had heard that the French had landed in Tuscany, and they were taking by surprise the German Army on all the fronts. The Soviets held their ground and the Third Reich was slowly crumbling.

Soon, Rachel would be finally free, once again. She would have the right to put her foot in the street without feeling threatened, and to have a job, and to live like the others.

The young woman felt like a page was turning — and it would be definitely turned once the new of the liberation of Europe from the Nazi yoke would be made official. Since Rachel had come into her life, she felt like she was seeing everything from another point of view. When she went out in the streets of the capital, Quinn thought about the Jews, the communists, the Gypsies, the intellectuals who must hide from everyone, who had to live in the attics of the buildings, in a hidden room of an apartment, in a cellar nibbled by rats and insalubrity.

Of course, she knew that lots of people were hiding for a few years, for reasons as diverse as legitimate. Mercedes was hiding. Sue was hiding her activities, perceived as illegal. Tons of refugees, clandestine, people that had wanted to take a chance in the capital of fashion and of dreams coming true, had seen their illusions falling down when the shadow of the German empire began to cover authoritatively the City of Light.

Moreover, she had seen with her own eyes the horrifying consequences of persecution and propaganda committed by the Nazis, as well as the results of collaboration, too common. One day while she was going for a walk, Quinn had discovered, horrified, plastered at every corner of the town and the country, dozens of copies of the Affiche Rouge, proudly announcing the sentence followed by the execution of members of the Manouchian group.

She had collapsed, inert, once she got home, afraid to imagine what could happen to her, thinking about the worse since that day.

Paris, which we once praised, was nothing more than a point on a map, a ghostly city, inhabited by invisible souls, controlled by an iron fist and invincible souls.

At the least, souls that we thought invincible then. Because today, the cards have been re-dealt. This empire, formerly impenetrable and unstoppable, had shown its weaknesses and was now unable to contain all those armies, french, soviets, anglo-Saxon and colonial, that were suddenly attacking it from every side.

There was a chance for the liberty to finally prevail, after years spent in oblivion.

There was a chance for that, in less than a year, Rachel could taste the Parisian air, the paved stones under her feet, and that she could wander aimlessly on the shopping avenues, that she would observe with a shining eye the shop windows of the luxury boutiques full to breaking point, and that she could walk with serenity next to Quinn, their arms tangled, sharing happy and loving gazes without caring about the looks of the onlookers.

Quinn believed it, her who had almost lost all her faith. The French Army of Liberation of De Gaulle was gaining ground, the Allies succeeded in blocking the German attacks, and for the first time in months without making a concession.

Everything was possible. The chances that all those horrible persecutions finally ceased were growing bigger each day, when she heard on the radio that the French had won back this or that town or department and were getting closer, slowly but surely, to the capital.

She wanted to believe in this future freedom. Because it would mean that she would have a chance at a future with Rachel.

* * *

The days went by and looked alike, passing before Rachel and Quinn's eyes.

There had been violent gusts of the wind and a few storms, switching with mild temperatures and a constant humidity in the air for long weeks. The weather abruptly changed in the middle of July and stayed consistently good. Quinn needn't trying to turn the heating on anymore, and definitively put away the blankets and the feather duvet which had stayed in her bed since the autumn.

The two women spent, without really noticing it but not saying anything about it, more time on their feet with the days drawing out and the night arriving later.

They agreed on delaying their lunch and their dinner by one hour, on staying in the living room until he natural light couldn't come to it, on visiting their neighbors of the floor below at least once a week; all those little things, in appearance trifling, banal, were making their daily life more real, added to it a depth indispensable for two people sharing each other's life, and that wanted to go on doing it, as long as they could.

Mercedes and Sam were, every time the one or the other opened the door to their apartment and saw who was standing behind, ecstatic to see them. They generally offered them something to drink (tea or coffee), sometimes to eat (some dry biscuits or brioche), if they didn't invite them to dinner.

These visits were more and more regular, for the enjoyment of the four of them. Rachel was beginning to truly feel like she had a place in this small group of friends. Moreover, she felt like — it was more than an impression, she knew it was the truth — she was treated like a real human being, with her own opinion and personality, and that she was loved for that.

She knew that the young Caribbean woman's gazes, full of affection and just the tiny bit mischievous, would have never been addressed to a stranger, a Jew on the run or a simple neighbor. She knew that Sam's embraces, his shy and honest grins were one of the young man's ways to show her that he cared for her, like the first time he had seen her, collapsed in a dark alley in between bloody shards of glass.

Besides, the small brunette knew that the two neighbors of Quinn weren't angry with her from having brusquely landed in the third floor apartment, and from sharing for nearly ten months the meals with a formerly solitary blonde without giving her anything in return, except for a little love and comfort in a world torn by violence.

It wasn't her fault, obviously; Rachel hadn't chosen to come upon Quinn, on a woman that would open the doors of her home and her heart, and Quinn's grace was only a minuscule example of the reasons that had pushed her into staying here.

And yet, Sam and Mercedes treated her like she had lived with Quinn forever as if they had met at school and had just found an old friend they had lost touch with years ago.

She couldn't have dreamt of a better living environment, and she hoped with all her soul that she could go on experiencing this state of beatitude and serenity, of liberty that Quinn was giving her.

Quinn seemed more relaxed with the arrival of the warm days. Her hair was lightening, her skin became less pale, her hands more calloused, her eyes more green and alive.

Quinn also woke up earlier; she usually didn't shut the blinds of the window of her bedroom, so she was almost always awoken by the sun rays coming through the white curtains and falling on the pillow. Rachel knew that the blonde wasn't asleep anymore when she felt her snuggling a bit more to her, pressing her chest against her back, or tightening her hold on her waist with her alabaster arms.

Rachel loved these lazy mornings, bathed in an oneiric, peaceful atmosphere, separate from the rest of the day by a miracle she couldn't explain.

The tranquility of those daily moments brought much tenderness, many beautiful and useless conversations, sometimes confused because of sleep, between the two women.

Sometimes, Quinn would wake up her companion by snuggling against her, showering the nape of her neck with kisses, slipping her hand under her pajama to stroke the tender skin of her stomach and of her hips until Rachel would stretch her numb limbs and do the same. Some other times, the blonde would get out of bed at dawn (as hard it was to leave Rachel and her warmth, even for a few minutes), and would come back an instant later, arms full of a plate as sparse as appetizing that she would put down beside her.

Actually, how she woke up didn't matter; Quinn never stopped surprising Rachel, and Rachel loved the uniqueness of these moments.

It was one of those mornings, baking under the summer sun, that had seen one of those common dialogues arising between them, as usual, broken by their slow and rested breathings, by the swishing of the sheets on their bodies, by the cooing of a bird on an adjacent balcony. A banal dialogue which intensity surprised them both, as well as brought them closer.

They had left the land of dreams for a long time already, and yet they couldn't decide to leave their shelter made of cotton and cloth to face another day when anything could happen, the best like the worst.

They simply wanted this privileged moment that only existed between the two of them to last, even for a single more minute.

Facing the little brunette and holding her hand in hers, Quinn had asked her, with a slight apprehension, if she would have rather not be Jewish so she wouldn't have to flee and to endure all those persecutions.

Rachel seemed to think for a second, then she shook her head.

"I cannot say this. If I hadn't been Jewish, a lot of things would have been different today."

"And if you had had the choice," Quinn went on, "would you have rather not be ?"

This time, the brunette took her time to answer.

She didn't know if she would have liked to be something else — Christian, atheist — than what she always had been, what she had always known. Obviously, if she had had another religion, if her father had been a Catholic, she wouldn't have suffered those years of the manhunt and constant denigrations. She wouldn't have had to cross countless frontiers, trying to make herself understand by strangers and hiding in humid barns or skimpy cellars.

She would have probably never arrived in Paris, a night of August, by a freight car, and would have never spent one night and one day and the beginning of another night in the basement of this dilapidated building, which the front door didn't close anymore and into which she had rushed, frozen to death, with the hope of finding someone that could make her travel to her next destination, whatever it was.

Even worse, she would have never met Quinn.

Rachel told her, softly, and added that despite the complications that had come her way because of her religion, of an attribute that she hadn't chosen, that she didn't regret a single thing.

"It's one of the reasons why we're together today," she smiled, while sliding a strand of blonde hair behind Quinn's ear.

The taller one kept silent, the shadow of a smile on her lips, her eyelids closing by themselves under the caresses of the dark-haired woman.

"Isn't it contrary to what your religion advocates," the blonde continued in a teasing, almost mocking tone, "living with another woman and falling in love with her ?"

"Perhaps it is," Rachel replied in the same tone. "But if I'm not mistaken, it is also contrary to yours, isn't it ?"

"It's true," she chuckled. "You're right."

It was so simple to talk about serious matters with Rachel, Quinn thought. She had needed weeks and months to be able to reconcile religious injunctions and amorous preferences, but now all those questions didn't really matter as much as they did before. The cross she wore around her neck had finally lightened, after a time spent dragging it like a burden.

Furthermore, the blonde didn't need a God to confuse her mind.

All those years spent fighting against orders dictating her how to behave seemed now lost, vain, and not happy at all. To this day, she still hadn't the right, so banal and ridiculous, to have a girlfriend, to hold her hand in the street, to start a family with her. All of this was forbidden to her because of stupid laws, stupid religions, and it darkened her mood every time she thought about it.

"But I don't grant importance to it," Rachel went on as if she knew where Quinn wanted to arrive. "Too bad if loving you means being denied by some rabbi who has, by the way, in no way the right to decide on the person I love. Nobody has the right to decide, except me."

"I won't argue on this point."

The brunette grinned, moving her face nearer to Quinn's to lay a chaste kiss on her lips.

"Quinn, no matter what the others say about it," she spoke slowly. "We are together, it's all that matters. No pope, no priest, no politician could make us say otherwise. Period. Even if we're two women, we have the right to love each other. And do you know why I think that our relationship is as suitable and legitimate than any other one ?"

When Quinn nodded, puzzled and amused, Rachel leaned toward her, kissed the bit of flesh just under her ear, before murmuring in a low voice:

"Because, whether it is to procreate or not, making love is a beautiful thing. We can't punish us for that."

The young woman could only admit that she was right, especially when Rachel slid her little hand on her arms, before taking a path she knew too well, sneaking in under her shirt, grazing her ribs with her short nails.

* * *

What Quinn didn't know, was that Mercedes knew.

She knew that Quinn and Rachel had a romantic liaison for a while. She had had doubts well before Quinn came to announce her that Rachel had kissed her, actually. This conversation she had with her neighbor only confirmed them.

No, it was well before that that Mercedes began to suspect the nature of the relation between the two women. She couldn't have explained why; perhaps it was in the discreet way that one of them would watch the other, with a comforting glance or a shy smile that was addressed to no one and with the only aim to transcribe their emotions.

To say the truth, she thought, amused, the chemistry between the two of them had become blindingly obvious after a few encounters.

If her suspicions and her eyes weren't enough, Mercedes could trust her ears. It was one of the advantages to living in the apartment just below her neighbor's.

Sometimes, during the day, she could perceive the sound of footsteps above her head, of bare feet sliding on the parquet, to the rhythm of a music she could discern, if she listened carefully, among the muffled laughs and the stifled voices. It could happen a few times a week, and was becoming more and more common those days.

The sound of heels on her ceiling didn't bother her, on the contrary; Mercedes liked knowing that her neighbor and her small protégé had got a bit of their former joy back, by dancing on Brahms's waltzes, or minuets from Bach or Boccherini, without caring about the world surrounding them anymore.

She smiled upon hearing, once again, Rachel and Quinn having a dance on an umpteenth classical composer, and Mercedes thought that she had been right when she had said that they had found each other.

She couldn't have dreamt better for Quinn. This little brunette did her the best, and she hoped that they would succeed in overstepping the obstacles that would come across their way, and the ones they would have to fight against in the future, even after the war.

But Mercedes wasn't the only one to know which turning point the relationship between Quinn and Rachel had taken, and this, the blonde didn't know it either.

Nothing could have explained it, but Brittany was, probably because of the logics, aware of the burgeoning amorous feelings between her two friends. It was true that she only met Rachel a handful of times, this small Jew with big eyes and a shy grin, but it had been enough for her to know.

She was happy for Rachel; she felt a true affection for her and knowing that Quinn was the reason behind her laughs and her invigorated looks only added to her happiness.

Quinn, as far as Brittany knew, had never really been content with her life. The death of her parents had put her out of a cherished childhood too soon, and her arrival in Paris didn't only do her good. Of course, thanks to Sue, this woman with a titanic heart that had taken the Fabrays sisters under her wing without asking for anything back had enabled the young woman to grow up, to develop while still having a solid shoulder onto which she could hang when things turned out badly. Poor Quinn then had her heart broken — by a woman, moreover. It should have enormously tormented her, or at least, for some time. Brittany didn't really know how or what Quinn had felt for this other woman; it should be said that Quinn was an expert in the art of craftiness and dissimulation.

Then the war had spread to Paris, bringing with its bundle of hopelessness, immigration, and rifts that everybody felt to their own soul.

Quinn hadn't been spared, no more no less than the others.

All those inspections, those police raids, those accusations and those whispers that could lead anybody into jail could get on anyone's nerves.

With Rachel's (unfortunate, it's true) arrival, Quinn had gotten back the hope she lost, the smile she lacked, the sparkling behind her gold pupils.

Maybe Quinn would still have to fight against the era and the society and tons of other things that didn't depend on her for a long time, but now, she had Rachel by her side. She had found a woman that trusted her, whom she trusted, and which love wasn't to prove anymore.

Their love has never been to prove, Brittany thought while smiling.

She thought about the last time she had visited her blonde friend and her brown-haired roommate, about the way they would graze hands, the way they would talk to each other.

She has never had the chance to see two people as much in love as they were.

Sam, as for him, didn't know all of this, but it didn't prevent him from knowing another thing.

He was seeing Quinn happy, truly happy, and this sole fact was enough for him.

He still remembered Quinn, almost six years ago, when she had moved in this building and she had finally accepted their invitation, from him and Mercedes, to take the tea.

The young blonde girl was more than quiet then, and Sam had first believed that she was deaf. The years went on, and Quinn seemed to give up a few of her defenses, and she opened up a little more to the couple living on the second floor, to their great joy.

With the Nazis coming to power, he and Mercedes hadn't had a choice and had to limit their circle of acquaintances to the bare minimum. Quinn stayed a part of it, obviously.

Ever since their first meeting, Quinn had straight away intrigued him. She never avoided his gaze, and he noticed, as the months went on, that something within her was screaming that she wasn't whole, that she wasn't herself — not only in his presence but every instant, anywhere and any time of the day.

Perhaps that this thing she missed, Rachel had brought it to her, this small Jewish girl that he had taken with him one night when he was coming back from work, and that he had then carried, without questions, to her half-doctor neighbor who had become his closest friend. Since this day, Rachel hadn't left her apartment, and it appeared that she didn't want to. The blonde didn't either, by the way. Living with another person didn't seem to bother her — especially when this person was as adorable as Rachel.

What could Rachel have that Quinn didn't ? Sam had no idea.

But it didn't matter. Because since the small brunette had arrived, and was living a few meters from his door, Quinn has never seemed as blooming, as true.

She was complete.

* * *

 _It's a long old road, but I know I'm gonna find the end._

 _— Bessie Smith._


	18. Chapter 18

**We're almost done with this story. I hope the last chapters won't disappoint you (:**

* * *

It had happened little by little, unhurried, like everything that had happened those past years.

A banal day, like any other one.

It would soon be a year since Rachel had arrived in Paris, without knowing anyone and penniless, one freezing day of August. She remembered too well those endless hours spent in the basement of this building, the humidity making holes in the rags she was wearing, the strong smell of mold that had assailed her when she had entered.

She couldn't have spent one more day in it, actually. May as well go out and brave the Gestapo in a breathable atmosphere. Fortunately, she didn't have to choose this option.

The brunette had been about to drop from exhaustion, leaning against a metal container, when a crackling followed by an abrupt snap startled her.

She had counted to ten before catching her breath, trying to recognize the sound that had frightened her. She tried not to think about what it could have been. It couldn't have been a bullet. It couldn't have been someone who had fired a gun. Nobody had seen her coming into this building, nobody was aware of her presence. She was certain of it.

Yet, not even five minutes later (or had it been one hour ?), Rachel had heard footsteps. Footsteps that seem to get closer, near her makeshift hideout.

And, after a moment, light filled the small insalubrious room.

Rachel remembered how she had held her breath, even though she had been on the verge of panicking. She couldn't see who had come in — she was persuaded that it was a soldier, a man that had come to find her and putting a bullet between her eyes or to torture her. She was terrified by all the possibilities her mind offered her, and yet she managed to keep her calm and not make a noise.

She didn't have the choice. She didn't want to die. She didn't want to be locked away, whether it be in jail or in a camp, those camps supposedly for the Jews to work in.

(Lies, she thought; if Hitler hated the Jews so much, he wouldn't want to let them near a pickaxe, a hammer or a needle.)

The stranger that had just come into the room wasn't here for her, she had thought after a few minutes of metallic squeaking and light sighs mixed with the creasing of clothes.

It calmed Rachel down — at least for a while. She hoped that she would soon be alone again, because she didn't know for how long she could stay without this someone noticing her.

It was the most important. Not knowing that she was hiding. Not knowing that there was someone, here, in this dilapidated basement, sitting down directly on the floor.

Unfortunately for her, fate decided otherwise.

Without warning, a strong sound, strident and coming out of the blue, resonated in the small dark room, which reverberated its echo for an eternity.

Rachel couldn't contain her surprise, and a frightened gasp came out of her throat before she could stop herself.

She remembered having told herself that that was it, her time had come. The stranger of the cellar was going to find her and kill her, or, in a moment of rage, denounce her to the authorities. In this position, her optimism, usually always present within her, couldn't even comfort her. This time she won't be able to get through it, not like the other times in the past decade.

When a voice (feminine, questioning and quite soft, the antipodes of the one she had imagined, authoritative and cold) rang out in the enclosed space, Rachel had hermetically shut her eyelids.

The German accent was almost perfect. It should be a policeman or a French gendarme under the Gestapo's orders.

Her chest rose and fell frantically, to the irregular rhythm of her heart. However, less than a minute after, she heard the same voice again, a bit closer, except that it didn't speak German anymore and took the urban tone typical of the average French citizen.

But she mustn't answer. It was out of the question. She would be sent in the first train to nowhere if she opened her mouth.

Hopeless, Rachel had joined her hands and began a silent prayer.

Her pleas were unhelpful, because she then felt on her a powerful light, then a presence at her sides; there hadn't been any violent assault on her shoulders, blows on her body, not even a cry of stupor or a swear word from Rachel. There had simply been a person, a woman, if she believed her ears, telling her that she wasn't going to hurt her.

Not even in her craziest dreams would she have imagined such scenario. She had met lots of people, more or less helpful, more or less shocked when they learned that she was fleeing, but this one should be damned brave to talk to her like that, knowing that she was Jewish.

She probably knew it, because there still was this rotten yellow star sewn at her cloth.

Despite this fact, the stranger wasn't put off. Carefully, as if it could change the course of events, the small brunette finally opened her eyes, laid her gaze on this soul who wasn't afraid to talk to her, to come to her even though she hadn't asked for anything.

The rest was ancient history; it didn't stop Rachel from thinking about it from time to time, with an ounce of nostalgia and a smile at the corner of her lips.

Quinn had undoubted put her out of a century of penury and wandering, perhaps even without being aware of it, when she had invited her at her home.

Rachel hadn't known what this invitation, this improbable and incongruous meeting would imply. She didn't expect to stay for more than a week in the capital, only the time to get back on her feet and leave again, looking for a safe place, free of Nazi and fascist domination. She didn't expect to enjoy the presence of the owner of the place, to like spending time with her and listening to her kind words.

She definitely didn't expect to fall in love with her clumsy, gracious ways, her shyness and her weaknesses, her blushing smiles and her daily attentions toward her.

The realization was so quick in her mind that she hadn't had the time to question this new development. And, if she was perfectly frank and honest with herself, she certainly didn't want to question it.

Because there was no shame in loving Quinn.

* * *

As quickly as she came to this conclusion, a crucial event happened which shook even the inside of the apartment shared by the two women.

It had been slow, succinct, subtle and terribly long at the same time, and it had begun mid-August, under a blazing sun.

Since the 10 August, the railway workers were on strike. In the eyes of the population, it seemed that their objective was simply to have a pay increase or more flexible working hours. But, to everyone's astonishment, they were joined three days later by the national police force and Paris' subway, then by the police, Tuesday the fifteenth.

This day, Quinn had bought, for the first time in a long time, le Petit Parisien, which confirmed the underground strike. Moreover, the newspaper announced that the inhabitants would only have electric current between ten thirty p.m. and midnight. The news made her grind her teeth.

The Germans didn't seem like they were reacting. No measure has been taken to stop those strikes in the capital.

Some posters, mostly printed by groups of Résistants which used the premises of the police, had been stuck everywhere. Not a single building was spared (except, maybe, a few historical monuments, but nothing was less certain). Everybody, in less than two days, was aware of this strike almost widespread, and everybody was delighted.

The paved stones were burning under the unreal, vibrating heat. Those who were used to wandering in the streets had to cease their activity quickly, for fear of seeing their skin burning or peeling. Quinn took advantage of a light breeze, on the night of Wednesday 16, to take her bicycle and dash to Sue Sylvester to buy a few staple products.

When she got home, she and Rachel shared a dinner made of vegetables and fruits more or less fresh, and they disregarded their ritual cup of tea, preferring water to quench their thirst.

It's the day after that everything began, by something that didn't seem to really matter at first.

The radio suddenly stopped transmitting on the middle of the afternoon.

Quinn, sitting on the couch, frowned and got up to check that her wireless was still working. It seemed so, and for once it wasn't the fault of the blackout, since her radio set had a battery. She turned the button, tried to get another frequency, in vain. The needle moved from side to side, without success. The radio stayed invariably silent.

"It's strange," Quinn said softly.

Rachel heard her and, looking up at her, asked her what was it that she found strange.

"We don't pick up the radio anymore," the blonde answered, a concerned pout on her face. "From Radio France to the BBC. It had never happened before."

"Isn't there a problem with the wireless ?" As Quinn shook her head, Rachel got up and stood by her side, put a comforting hand on her arm.

"You're probably worried for nothing. There may be an interruption of the programs for the day, or a problem with the receiving. Everything will work fine tomorrow and this unlucky incident will be forgotten. You can survive without information nor music for a few hours," she joked.

"You're probably right," Quinn said after a moment, then she sighed: "I hope that this doesn't foreshadow something serious. Even Radio-Paris doesn't broadcast anymore."

"It doesn't displease me."

"Me neither. But it's a bit unsettling."

The programs were back in the evening as if nothing had happened. No presenter spoke about some widespread power failure or interruption of the programs, to Quinn's astonishment. Rachel was seeing that she was a bit confused and couldn't understand what could have happened during those hours, but she couldn't form the beginning of an explanation either.

Nonetheless, they didn't talk about it until the day after, sometime around the hour when the sun set, because the electricity had been suddenly cut.

Quinn quickly went into the cellar's building, without finding anything abnormal in the circuits. Yet it was almost eleven o'clock, hour at which almost everyone had electricity. The problem was coming from elsewhere.

She got the solution when she slipped outside for a few moments, trying to find something, anything to enlighten her on these last few days, weirder than usual.

The small avenue was deserted, peaceful. Turning her head from left to right, she caught sight of a bill poster running off into darkness, a bucket filled with glue in his hand and a good kilo of posters rolled under his arm.

The young woman got closer to the place the boy had occupied ten seconds ago, looking at what had just be posted on the building. Squinting, she managed to decipher the first lines, in black ink under a bold headline followed by lots of punctuation marks.

The poster allowed no doubt; it announced, purely and simply, a general strike in the capital and its surroundings, without telling when it would end.

Quinn noticed that all the professions, or almost, were concerned; including the electricians. It was undoubted because of that strike that the electricity had been cut, definitely this time.

She hoped that she and Rachel will still have water and gas.

Coming back into her apartment, she informed her roommate of the news. She didn't seem much surprised.

"It's the beginning of the end," she said with a slight smile. "The French people are waking up. Liberation will arrive anytime now."

It was now 19 August, and the state of things evolved every hour, but the two women of the third floor couldn't see it since the radio was currently of no use. The journalists behind their microphones didn't know more than they did. To know which was the situation, you had to go into the streets.

And it looked like many Parisians had gone into the streets, but not only to watch in silence.

The Montmartre district, or to be more accurate the streets directly around the Abbesses station, like La Vieuville street and the Trois-Frères streets, weren't much representative of what was happening on the city scale, more frantic that this little piece of arrondissement known for its quietude.

Everywhere in Paris, people began to erect barricades, on the ground or the windows, made of everything they could find; old duffel bags, paved stones removed from the ground, crates of vegetables, old furniture and ripped open couch which they busied themselves passing through staircases or narrow elevators. They used everything they had at hand, and they even cut some trees down, smashed glass bottles and spreading conscientiously the shards on the road. "They" were everybody. Everyone who, when they had heard the walking of the liberating troops toward the capital, had wanted to add their stone to the building, and put a spoke in the Gestapo's wheel.

Paris, so idle, so comatose those times, looked like it was waking up from a sleep of a hundred years, and was preparing to fight. At least, a few hundreds, even a few thousands of people was preparing to fight.

The 19th, Quinn had stridden along the longest boulevards of the right bank, staying speechless in front of those small hummocks which rose and bloomed at every corner. Sometimes, some inhabitants, an old helmet taken from a German's head on their skull, were already placed behind their piece of wood and stone, weapon in hand. Quinn hadn't lingered outside, hoping not to find herself in a bloody confrontation.

She found Rachel in the apartment and told her what she had just seen.

"Everybody senses that the Allies will come soon," she said, excitement and worry in her voice. "The German tanks and trunks don't stop patrolling. All this tension will blow up eventually."

Rachel, calmer than the young woman, took her by the shoulders and offered her her prettiest grin.

"I don't think that we have to worry. We are safe here, we have always been, and it won't change now that people are beginning to revolt. They have no reason to come and attack the habitations."

Quinn had to admit that she was right. Then she put her forehead against hers, rubbing her nose against her cheekbone, while murmuring her promises that everything would be over very soon, that they would get by fine. The small brunette had no problem believing her.

In the night of Sunday 20 August, Quinn was brutally woken up by remote noises of gunfires. She looked down at Rachel's sleeping form, then smiled feebly upon realizing that she was still in the land of dreams.

The blonde made her fingers slip on the nape of Rachel's neck, in her brown hair, as to appease her, or to calm herself down, while violent gunshots were still blooming in the city. Quinn even thought she could distinguish, even though she couldn't be certain, among the muffled cries and the hasty steps, a cannon shot, or maybe two.

She couldn't have said how much time this brouhaha lasted, but it was still pitch black outside when it ended. The young woman thought she could go back to sleep, but fate decided otherwise, because a lightning ripped the sky, illuminating vague smokes for a split second, before giving way to a dull, threatening rumble, even worse than the distant gunshots.

A fine loud rain covered the town in no time. The water hit the windows and the rooftops, changing a city that was a moment ago too frenetic. Quinn could hear the wind howling, taking away the light, malleable raindrops with it, giving more violence to their fall.

The night didn't seem like it wanted to end. Neither did the storm. It went on for hours, covering the sky with a somber, invisible cloud, concealing the light to the Parisians.

Quinn tried to fall back into sleep, tightening a bit more the brunette's arms on her waist and smelling her scent to calm the beatings in her rib cage.

She didn't get to spend much time in the arms of Morpheus, because she was woken up again at dawn, this time by discreet knocks on her door. It wasn't five in the morning yet, but we could see a pale glow in the East, yellowish and with light orange hues. The storm had finally passed, and Paris was quiet again, waiting in the morning cold.

The blonde carefully extracted herself from Rachel's embrace, still asleep, taking care and trying not to wake her up, and not before having tenderly kissed her before coming out of the bedroom.

Muffling a yawn with the sleeve of her shirt, Quinn stumbled more than walked to the door, and, upon recognizing the rhythm hitting the wood and the steel of the front door, she felt like every trace of fatigue had suddenly left her limbs.

She opened the door, fearing the worst, while the anxiety was beginning to infiltrate her blood vessels.

A sigh left her lips when she recognized Sue two meters away from her, but she still wasn't relieved. Mainly because Sue Sylvester seemed so serious, almost unhappy. Her clothes were dry; she had probably avoided the previous storm.

"Come in," Quinn said without adding a thing.

After shutting the door, Sue followed her without a word into the kitchen, where the young woman was pouring herself a glass of water. It's only at this moment that she looked around her, glancing toward the living room, as if she was looking for something.

"Where is Rachel ?"

"She's sleeping in the bedroom," Quinn answered, giving an unconscious half-smile.

Sue nodded, then crossed her arms on her chest.

Her appearance excited Quinn's nerves, who furrowed her brows, worried. She didn't know why the tall woman had come to her yet, or what she had to tell her. Perhaps that she was going to let her know that the few confrontations and shootouts that could be heard from time to time were going to turn into a true civil war, and that the city wasn't a safe place anymore, neither for her nor for Rachel. For no one. Quinn feared what Sue would say once she would open her mouth.

"Is everything alright, Sue ?"

"No, no really," she said in a monotonous voice.

"Are you in trouble ? If you want to, you can stay here, there's no room available anymore, but I'm sure it won't bother Rachel..."

"You are an angel, Quinn, but it's not about me. It's about what is happening outside."

The younger woman weakly breathed in. She didn't know what to reply, only a whispered and pitiful "what ?", which slowly faded away in the silence of the kitchen.

"The thing is," Sue went, "all those barricades, those thousands of people in the streets, armed or not, that have decided to take back the capital and throw the Germans out at all costs. That is to their credit, obviously, even though some of them needed time to wake up, but it's not the most important. The problem is elsewhere. Did you hear this night's racket ?"

Dumbfounded, Quinn could only nod stupidly, uncertain about what turn would take Sue's words.

"It was the Résistants trying to take back all the municipal buildings. The electricity companies, the railroad stations, the city halls, the newspapers headquarters, the police headquarters. Everyone tackles the problem and wants to throw the Nazis out. What's weird, is that some of them don't even try to resist, and they flee, if they can, to go back to Germany, or God knows where."

"I don't understand," the young woman said slowly. "What does it have to do with me ?"

"Because there are injured persons, Q. And there will be again, much more. Some aid stations are beginning to set up, but they lack doctors, sent to the front for the most of them, or in the army of the general De Gaulle. And since the next days, even the next weeks will be awful, as for the opposite camp as for ours, having someone to help giving first aid wouldn't be too much."

Quinn kept silent. She didn't know what to reply to this request, which wasn't really a request by the way. Sue would never force her into anything, she knew it. But she had no idea about the answer she was going to give, so she asked Sue if she could think it over until the next day before giving her decision.

Sue stretched her lips into an honest, understanding smile, and got closer to Quinn to put a hand on her shoulder.

"Of course. Take all the time you need, but you have to know that everything will speed up in the next few days."

"I know," the younger woman replied while nodding.

"If you ever agree, come and see me tomorrow, at about one o'clock. If you have some stuff in reserve, fabric or alcohol to disinfect, bring them with you. We lack supplies of this kind."

Sue left the place, and Quinn sighed while leaning against the wall near the front door.

Helping these people who were (finally!) fighting for freedom seemed the best thing to do. Even though she wasn't a doctor or a nurse, she could be useful. Weighing up the pros and cons of what Sue Sylvester had just proposed to her, Quinn couldn't really find a reason to refuse.

Except one, the same reason that pushed her into staying at home rather than wandering outside.

She didn't want to leave Rachel all alone. Who knew what could happen to her while she was hundred meters away from the apartment, perhaps on the other bank, with no one to keep an eye on her. And it was out of the question to bring her on a battlefield; she didn't need that.

There were her neighbors, of course. Quinn could ask them to take Rachel in for the day, to take care of her until she came back, but it seemed opportunistic, selfish. However she knew that it wouldn't bother Mercedes, on the contrary, but she felt bad toward the small Jew. She made her go through so much, and she never complained.

Quinn spent the next minutes thinking about this dilemma, even though she knew which choice she would make. There was a reason that had pushed her into learning the basics of medicine, studying her father's chemistry and physics manuals during hours; the same reason that would make her go and join Sue, in a few hours, at the heart of the Parisian confrontations.

Upon entering the bedroom, the blonde stopped, watching Rachel for a few instants. The little woman was tangled in a sheet, squeezing the pillow against her torso and wearing a peaceful, almost angelic look on her face.

Quinn smiled. It made her sick to leave Rachel, even if it was only temporary, even for one hour or two, but she knew that in the end she would find her. Rachel would wait for her.

She went back into bed after she had rearranged the sheet and the pillow of her girlfriend, then she kissed her for a long while on the lips. Rachel moved a little but didn't wake up, and Quinn was simply happy to be able to feel her warmth and her smell all around her. She fell asleep before dawn, and could enjoy another lie-in in Rachel's arms.

The following day, when she explained, filled with a sensation near regret, to the brunette what Sue had proposed to her and why she had accepted, the girl only supported her choice.

"We have the rest of our lives for us, Quinn," she had replied to cheer her up.

Quinn left around twelve thirty, leaving Rachel to her neighbors' care and not before slipping a confident and ingenuous "I love you" in her ear, then she hugged her for a long while under Mercedes' knowing gaze.

The young Parisian felt like she was leaving for war, when she was only getting out of it.

"I'll be back tonight," she assured with a slight smile. Rachel did the same and squeezed her hands.

"I'll wait for you."

And indeed, Rachel waited for her. The day seemed perhaps a bit longer than usual, but she knew it was only a trick played by her imagination. Mercedes seemed to understand what was upsetting her, and did her best to distract her. The two women played cards for a good part of the day, while waiting for Sam to return, then Quinn.

Sam arrived at about six thirty, happy and affectionate, as usual. He kissed the two brunettes, Mercedes on the lips, Rachel on the cheek, and kept busy by cooking dinner.

As for her, the young blonde saw things she could have never dreamt of in her wildest dreams, and she was also beginning to truly believe that the end was close.

The war was reaching its end, and freedom was at hand.

All the afternoon, she followed Sue everywhere, and stayed in a first aid station set up near the Opéra — as well as could be a few stretched canvas protected by some paved stones, under which was a small table and a makeshift bed. It was here that the injured people were converging en masse, and Quinn was doing her best to treat them.

She saw people of all ages, of all socio-professional categories; old men were coming for stitches, young children, sometimes who didn't even were eighteen years old, rushed through to remove a bullet from their arm or their thigh, or to resupply in water or band-aids. Sometimes, a lifeless body was brought, allied or enemy, and Quinn then had to wipe her eyes with her dress to spare useless tears.

She was here to work, to save lives, not to lament the human losses.

The flow of men and women lasted all day, and she only put down her instruments when the sun had disappeared behind gray buildings.

A few times, tanks passed by, all weapons out, without using them nonetheless. It appeared that nobody wanted to attack a first aid station.

Sue saw her out to the door of her building, thanked her for her help and they arranged to meet the day after. The two women were saying their goodbyes to each other when a truck crossed the road, slowly, followed by a little black car. Quinn open wide eyes upon recognizing the Nazi uniform that the men in the truck wore, and the insignia of the Résistance that those in the car had.

Quinn gave Sue a questioning look, who replied with a mysterious smile and a shrug.

The two next days went by more or less like this twenty-first August; Quinn would go with Sue and treat superficial wounds for hours, then she would come back home, tell Rachel little bits of her day and the latter would tell a few anecdotes of her own, and she would lay down by her side, glad that she would have faced another day and that nothing fatal had happened to her partner.

In the night, powerful explosions were waking up all the inhabitants; Rachel and Quinn weren't the exception. Fusillades seemed to burst from nowhere, and lasted for long hours, relentless, deadly. The window panes were often shaking, as if surprised by the violence of the fightings only a few meters away, and which only subsided at sunrise.

Except for those nocturnal cannonades, Paris seemed quiet, as quiet as it could be during these times. Rachel didn't see any gathering, any excesses from her apartment's window or Mercedes and Sam's. She supposed that the Germans were progressively surrendering themselves, didn't fight against the unavoidable. She hoped so.

But she had been wrong, apparently, and the Nazis weren't going to give up such an important city anytime soon, because during the day of Thursday 24, the door suddenly opened on a panicked Sam and a Quinn who was gritting her teeth, holding her own arm with a trembling hand.

A hand which was paler than usual, stained with a bright, liquid red, Rachel noticed.

She was standing in a flash, helping Sam to take Quinn to her apartment while Mercedes was gathering a first aid kit.

Quinn stumbled, almost pulling Sam and Rachel along in her fall, but their arms tightened around her waist, preventing her from falling down. At last, they arrived on the third floor. The small dark-haired girl hurried up and opened the door, the three persons coming in and following her, before closing it and she went looking in the bathroom for things that could be useful.

During these few seconds, she was unable to think or reflect on anything; Quinn was hurt, and she must be treated. There we were. The rest would come later, the questions and the weepings, the revived anxiety.

When she came back into the living room, Sam had lied the young woman down on the couch, so that her bruised arm was facing the outside. Mercedes was quickly and methodically bringing out the contents of the small case, and putting everything on a chair she had placed near the sofa.

Then Rachel focused her attention on Quinn when she moaned in pain. Mercedes had just put cotton wool soaked with surgical spirit on her wound. The cotton turned red as soon as it came in contact with the raw sore.

She rushed to her side, then, upon seeing tears stuck to Quinn's eyelids and lashes, gripped her hand without hesitation.

"Oh, honey."

The term of affection slipped from her mouth, but Rachel didn't know if her neighbors had heard it, or paid attention. She didn't care, in fact.

Quinn gritted her teeth, opened on Rachel eyes clouded by humidity and squeezed her hand. She tried not to cry somehow, while Mercedes kept on cleaning her arm.

"Good God, Quinn," the Caribbean woman breathed out when she saw the bare wound. "How did it happen ?"

The blonde swallowed, struggled to whisper in a hoarse voice: "A stray bullet. It fired from everywhere."

Rachel shushed her by putting two fingers on her lips, sliding on her cheek, moving aside the strands that darkened her forehead and her gaze. The explanations could come later; the only thing that mattered was taking care of Quinn.

Sam said, after he had examined the torn tissues, that the bullet had only grazed her arm, and wasn't lodged in it. It took a weight off everyone's mind. Then, he and Mercedes busied themselves around Quinn, wiping up the blood flowing out of the wound, before getting ready to stitch the flesh.

The brunette almost fainted when they asked her to bring sewing tools.

The operation took several minutes, maybe hours. Rachel couldn't have said. She still held her girlfriend's hand, offering her weak words of courage to distract her from the thread and the needle at her right.

Quinn was almost a doctor, but it didn't prevent her from feeling the pain.

At last, Mercedes cut the thread. A sinuous line was now striding across the young woman's arm, under her shoulder, at the level of her breast. Her biceps sported little gray crosses of a dozen of centimeters. Quinn sighed, both in relief, in gratefulness and a bit of sadness, undoubtedly. She gave a hint of a smile which turned into a grimace when she tried to move her shoulder, and welcomed with joy the aspirin and the glass of water Mercedes handed her.

Sam wrapped a piece of surgical tape around the scar so the wound wasn't in the open air.

The rest of the day was hazy for Quinn. She thought she had heard familiar voices behind her, Rachel thanking her neighbors and murmuring other things she couldn't decipher, before succumbing to a sleep she hoped would be long and restful.

It hadn't been.

Quinn woke up feeling like she was carrying a ivory statue with her own arm. It made her moan, and in a blink a face she knew too well came and sat in front of her.

"Is everything alright ? Does it hurt ? Oh, of course, it's a stupid question. I thought that you were good since you slept soundly for one hour, and I hadn't wanted to wake you up. Is there something I can do for you ?"

Despite everything, Quinn smiled, happy to hear Rachel's voice after hours of dull detonations and shootouts. Being back home has never felt so good.

She shook her head, but regretted instantly having done so.

Rachel saw her clenching her jaw, so she squeezed her hand and told her that she would bring her an aspirin. Quinn tried, for a while, to sit up straight against the arm of the couch. A throbbing pain welcomed her, coupled with a headache which almost made her lose her balance. She brought a hand to her forehead, waiting for the pounding to fade away.

They were diminished by the medicine Rachel gave her, then by the cup of hot tea she handed her. It smelled like camomile.

"It will help you get to sleep," the brunette said, smiling.

Quinn was dozing a little later, as the night was falling. Rachel had helped her walking to the bedroom, supporting her with an arm around her waist, then she had settled her the most comfortably as she could on the mattress. Quinn turned on her left side, resting her wounded arm over the sheet. She smiled upon feeling the small brunette sliding behind her, stroking her calf with her toes, and pressing kisses against her shoulder blade, through her clothing.

"Promise me to never scare me like that again."

And as the young blonde was caught up by fatigue and numbness, she couldn't have been more honest when she promised.

Her promise was, if not useless, hardly pertinent, because the next day we could hear cries coming from everywhere, from the richest faubourgs to the residential areas and suburbs, shouting that the division of the general Leclerc had just entered into Paris.

From eight o'clock in the morning, the two women were awaken by bursts of joy coming from the heart of the city.

We were finally there. The 25 August 1944, the capital was restored to the French.

* * *

 _Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be ; for without victory, there is no survival._

 _— Winston Churchill._


	19. Chapter 19

**Only one more chapter to go after this one. Thanks for your reviews, I hope you'll enjoy this one as well !**

* * *

The Liberation was announced; moreover, it was wanted, it was real. Everyone could see it from their window, from the central districts and the Bourse de Paris to the steep streets of Montmartre and the borders of the city.

Standing in their tanks crawling along, waving to the passersby who were gathering together on the sidewalks and catching the bouquets of wild flowers they were throwing at them, the soldiers were smiling, happy, perhaps as happy as the people watching them and thinking of them as a salutary light which had finally showed them the end of the tunnel.

The engine sounds filled the town with a soft purring, as if Paris itself was on wheels and was parading before thousands of amazed eyes.

If we listened carefully, we could hear clamors rising in the airs, coming from the city centre and the left bank, carried by the wind and endlessly repeated by the passersby, by the walls of the stone buildings.

Quinn had been woken up by this dull and light rumble, coming out of a sleep that had relieved her of a bit of pain and fatigue. The first thing she felt when she opened her eyes was her right arm, motionless and slightly stiff, resting at her sides without moving. She stretched her fingers, saw them wriggle, and she was incredibly eased upon seeing that she hadn't lost the use of her limb. She didn't know if she could have stood being amputee.

With a lot of care, the young woman turned on her left side, and when her headache had faded away a little, she threw her legs over the bed, put her naked feet down on the parquet of the bedroom. The coolness of the floor gave her an invigorating calm. Her wounded arm was forgotten for an instant.

Quinn then turned around, smiled when her gaze met Rachel's sleeping form under the thin white sheet. Despite her small size, her feet were sticking out from the cloth. Quinn thought that it may be time to buy a bed, a real double bed, this time, in which she and Rachel would have enough room and wouldn't have to huddle together (but of course, even on a kilometer-long bed, they would still hang on tight to each other. Quinn thought she could never sleep again otherwise.)

The young blonde was about to wake up her companion but didn't have the chance to; she had barely thought about it when she had heard the distant applause, the noise of a packed crowd filling every alley, street and dead end of the town. Nobody could have missed it even if they wanted to.

Rachel heard it too. Her body stretched in a quiet movement, tangling even more in the too short sheet, then she opened her eyes, immediately laying them on two green and gold orbs, shining with love.

She couldn't have dreamed of a better way to wake up; to see Quinn watching her like this never stopped surprising her and it filled her with wonder, filled her organism and her rib cage with a familiar warmth well welcomed. She hoped that every morning would be like this. She couldn't imagine otherwise.

Then, as if only sight was operational, her other senses slowly got back on track, and she finally understood that she wasn't imagining the clamor which was gaining in intensity, rumbling without animosity and waking up her eardrums.

"What is..."

Rachel got up reluctantly from her immaculate refuge to stand before the tiny window of the bedroom. She couldn't really see a thing; and even nothing, to say the truth. She didn't understand why the city had suddenly made her voice heard, at sunrise, while nothing had forecasted such event. Then, in a split second, her memory returned, and she knew why.

Paris had been liberated. The shouts she perceived weren't coming from a dying city, or from rebellious, dangerous people. They were victory cries, cries of relief, praising the comfort of freedom.

The small Jew suddenly stepped back from the window, as if she had been burnt by the rays of the sun, before turning toward Quinn. Disbelief was transforming her features, giving her an oneiric, surreal look.

"It's..." Rachel swallowed, shook her head to try and find the right words, the ones which would be appropriate for a moment like the one they were experiencing, but didn't find any. It was normal, after all, because she hadn't lived such a moment, and she never went through emotions like these.

Quinn kept on watching her, a slight smile at the corner of her lips.

"Is it true ?" Rachel asked in a trembling voice. "Is that it ? We're finally free ?"

The blonde sniffed, nodded without being able to stop grinning blissfully.

"Oh my God," the brunette breathed out.

"I know," Quinn replied. She was feeling the cramps coming in her cheeks, and her arm hanging heavily at her right, but she didn't pay any more attention to this when Rachel let out a cry of joy and threw her arms around her neck.

The brunette hugged Quinn's shoulders with her frail hands, those shoulders against which she had leant many times, against which she had shed many tears and memories, and which she had kissed and stroked to print them on her memory, until the smallest beauty spot, the slightest scar. She breathed Quinn's scent, unchanged since all this time, the odor of the apartment, a bit acrid because of the books' aging pages; it now smelled like safety, like home, like love.

They stayed like this for a long while, then stepped back when their exhausted limbs had become numb, and that their lungs were void of oxygen. Quinn's cheeks, usually so pale, were pink, gleaming in the dry morning with the sun rays coming through the window.

Everything surrounding them was already forgotten; the months spent in terror and fear, the tears shed in the night, the clothes too big and too rare, the empty stomachs, the cries of joy, the physical and psychological wounds. Nothing mattered anymore, except for this one and only truth, shining like a beacon in a world that had lost every hope of getting back on its feet.

Paris was free, and therefore, Quinn was free. Rachel was free.

* * *

Despite this, the two women agreed to wait at least a week before Rachel would go outside.

At first, they wanted to make sure that the blonde's arm was healing, and that no complication was going to appear out of the blue to aggravate her state. Rachel feared the gangrene. She didn't know if one could catch such a disease when they had been shot.

Fortunately, after a few days, Quinn got all her freedom of movement back, and soon this unfortunate episode was forgotten, only recalled to the two women's memory by the thin scar, pale and sinuous on her triceps.

Quinn, as for herself, dreaded that the Germans weren't all gone, even though the French tanks were proudly parading on all the great arteries, their guns aiming at the swatiskas they could see. Furthermore, she thought, an accident could happen very soon. Stray bullets weren't rare, those times.

Rachel didn't have to be convinced. She knew, as well as Quinn did, that the triumph of the French over the Nazis didn't mean that her rights had all of a sudden been restored. She was still Jewish, she was still hiding, wasn't wearing a yellow star, and in the eyes of the law, was still living illegally.

She hoped that all those stupid texts would soon be revoked. Anyway, she didn't think that this famous general de Gaulle, or the liberating forces, would wish to keep even a single one of the laws written with the aim to satisfy Hitler's will.

Everyone had to take a new start.

The electricity was given back to them a day or two after the official Liberation of Paris — official, because it was the day when the Second Armored Division, lead by the general Leclerc, had finally entered in Paris, and when this same man had obtained the capitulation of the major of the German Army. That evening, Charles de Gaulle was acclaimed at the city hall, before going up the Champs-Élysées, the next day, before the eyes of more than a million of inhabitants.

Sam had been there, he told them, and Mercedes too. She wouldn't have wanted to miss this opportunity for anything in the world, despite the risks.

The couple had told their neighbors about this day full of emotions and majestic speeches, however they regretted that they hadn't joined them.

"The war is over, for us at least," Sam had said, grinning. "We're not running any risk anymore, not even you, Rachel."

Rachel had smiled before his enthusiasm, then she had replied that she would rather wait for all the tension to drop before roaming the streets. She could well wait a few more days; she had already spent years in more awful conditions.

Moreover, we could still hear, piercing through the peaceful silence of the dawn or the afternoon, isolated gunshots, fired from a roof or a balcony, and she was reminded that everything wasn't over. A few solitary men were remaining, soldiers or not, fighting even when they knew perfectly well that they couldn't defeat their adversary now, but nonetheless decided to bring some people down before it would be their turn to be killed.

The Nazis may have had surrender and abandon the capital, but some fools still thought they had a chance by staying in a town fallen into the hands of the Résistants and the Liberation Army.

The following week, Quinn and Rachel were finally informed of the developments of those last few days. The radios were only talking about liberation, de Gaulle, victory, tomorrows, and this time without using coded messages.

The electricity came back, as well as the music. The discs almost never stopped spinning on the turn table, and Rachel was singing a little bit stronger than usual.

Little by little, things were going back to normal. The strikes had stopped miraculously, the cutting-off (of water, gas and electricity) were more rare, the remaining shooters were shot down or fled the city, while the provisional government, which had now settled in the capital, prepared itself to rebuild the bases of the French Republic.

Rachel waited patiently for the wireless to announce that new laws had been approved, so that she would finally feel completely, legally free, and to smell the air of the outside after one year locked in the same apartment.

She could have gone out, of course; she wasn't sure that she would be arrested. But she would rather not take any risk, after she had waited such a long while for a bright interval in this stormy sky. However, the lull she had hoped for so many years came sooner than she had presaged.

At the end of the month, only a week after this fateful 25th Friday, Quinn rushed into the apartment, breathless and sweating, and she was holding in her hand a torn copy of a newspaper.

"Look at that!" the young woman exclaimed in a breathy voice, as weak as if she had run from the thirteen arrondissement to her place.

Quinn spread the newspapers on the table in the living room, and Rachel could see from above her shoulder that it was from the 10 August. She was puzzled, not knowing why her companion was interested in such an old scrap of paper, but decided to let her do as she wanted.

Quinn let out a vigorous "here !" which startled the small dark-haired girl. Her forefinger had stopped at the beginning of a tiny paragraph, with tight, half erased letters by the wet fingers which had flipped through it weeks ago. It didn't seem like it was an important article at all. Squinting her eyes, Rachel leaned forward a little more, decipher the typeface.

The headline, soberly entitled _Ordonnance du 9 août 1944 relative au rétablissement de la légalité républicaine sur le territoire continental*_ , didn't tell her really much. After all, the Vichy Government or whatever could well vote in orders whenever they wanted to. She kept reading, nevertheless, and in a blink, she understood why Quinn was so eager to show it to her.

The ordinance had been made by the Provisional Government of the French Republic and, from what Rachel understood, it nullified more or less the Vichy Government and every law approved by Pétain and Laval. The third article was listing, step by step, all the acts invalidated. Including the discrimination against the Jews.

Rachel read again and again this section. She felt like she was in a dream, like she didn't understand what was surrounding her. Slowly, reality caught her back, and she turned toward Quinn.

For a minute, she didn't know what to say, or how to explain what had just crossed her mind.

"Quinn, this is excellent news, but..." Her eyes were distant, her voice full of regrets, maybe, or sadness. "We're still under the Vichy regime," she went on. "Even if we had just been freed, we have to wait for a new government to be established, and to vote in new laws."

Rachel didn't really know much about politics, but she felt like it was how things should be done. A man came to power, made his own laws, then he was overturned, and time was needed before another man would replace him and propose in his turn new laws, and so forth. It was a vicious circle.

But Quinn brushed away her arguments, and pointed out with a nail a sentence at the end of he article.

"Read this."

Rachel found the line, the eleventh article, and read it aloud.

"This ordinance will be applied to continental territory as and when... freed ?"

The brunette looked at Quinn. She was trying to hold back a smile, in vain, while tears shone at the top of her cheeks. Rachel questioned her with her gaze, and she nodded, multiple times, as to assure her that what she had read was real, that the newspaper wasn't propaganda, and that, in the end, Rachel was already free, officially, for a week.

It surprised her that they had not known about this publication sooner; after all, Quinn almost never read the newspaper, and the radio, when it was on, had never made a reference to it.

The shock was so great, dreaded, expected then unexpected, both hoped and unhoped for, unbelievable, that she couldn't make a sound for what seemed long minutes, but were only a few seconds. Then, Quinn's voice rang at her ear, pulled her out of her inertia, caressing with her breath her strands of brown hair.

"You are free, Rachel."

Rachel didn't let her time to add more and she hugged the young woman against her, stuck her mouth to hers, laughing and crying and savoring each second, every little thing surrounding her. Quinn was laughing with her, tasting the salted tears on her lips, pulling her even more toward her until there was no space between their bodies.

* * *

She didn't waste time to use of this new liberty given back to her. The following day, Rachel woke up at dawn to look for suitable clothes. She passed her excitement and her impatience on to Quinn, who was as keen to go outside as Rachel now that she could. The two women had literally itchy feet.

Quinn lent her a pair of leather shoes barely used, and a pastel-colored dress which was reaching her knees, and promised her to take her soon into ready-to-wear fashion stores so that she could finally choose clothes she would like.

At eleven o'clock, Rachel was ready.

She was apprehensive of what she was going to find outside; of course, Paris was a city like any other one, big and industrial, with shops at every corner and verdant parks and richly decorated museums. She was reassured when she felt Quinn's arm on her elbow, then when she saw her eyes reflecting all the adoration she felt toward her. The blonde asked if they could go. Rachel nodded, grinning, certain that everything would go smoothly.

For her first true outing, Rachel couldn't have dreamed better. Quinn showed her around the neighborhood, slowly, as to let her enjoy every step echoing on the paved stones, every breath of warm air, every gust of wind and every bird chirping.

It was so banal, and yet, the small Jew immediately realized how much she had missed that.

Quinn guided her through little alleys and steep avenues, pointed to her the entrance of the subway, the name of the streets (Lepic, Abbesses, Trois-Frères, Ravignan, many names that Rachel found strange and full of life), the coin laundry of which the owner had offered her two dresses, the Sacré-Cœur basilica pointing its immaculate bell tower in the blue of the sky.

The blonde felt like she was discovering this town at the same time as her partner, amazed before the same things, although she had lived for so long in this district.

Nobody seemed to pay attention to the two women roaming in the lanes. Only the arrondissements of the center, near the Seine, were still swarming with people celebrating the liberation, while the most remote ones had found a bit of their legendary serenity back.

When a passerby crossed their road, Rachel would invariably stare at them, before realizing what she was doing and she would blush with embarrassment, squeezing Quinn's arm. It was such a long time since she had seen so many disparate faces, so different statures, outfits as diverse as eclectic.

She liked it all. She couldn't find a single flaw blocking her view or spoiling her pleasure; not even the buildings with holes made by the bombs or the bullets, and which hadn't been rebuilt yet, or the paved stones removed from the road, or the fact that she couldn't act like she wanted to, and kiss Quinn whenever she felt like it.

They found themselves in their apartment one hour later, happy and free, still free. Quinn said that she could well recover a liking for her daily walks, if Rachel would accompany her, and she was prompt to agree. She would soon go back to a normal, urban life, made of ups and downs, and the only thought that Quinn would be with her all the way was making her future brighter.

At the beginning of September, while the warmth was finally dropping and more bearable, Mercedes invited her two neighbors to come to dinner.

"It won't be nothing spectacular," she said, "just a soirée that Sam and I will prepare for half a dozen persons. We have the right to celebrate the end of the war !"

The period was favorable to such occasions, and Rachel felt like she had the right to celebrate without feeling guilty — for the millions of people who hadn't had her luck, who hadn't met a Quinn who had reached out to them and offered them a second chance when they had most needed it. No, she decidedly didn't feel guilty anymore.

Mercedes hadn't revealed who were her guests, but it didn't matter for Rachel. The sole fact that she was invited, moreover by a woman who had only met her a little while ago, meant a lot for her.

That evening, the two tenants of the third floor arrived early before their neighbors' door, because Quinn had wanted to help them cooking dinner (even tough, she was sure that Mercedes was going to force her out of the kitchen if she ever dared come near her meals), and Rachel was unable to stand still, impatient for such a simple, common event.

It was Sam who opened the door, smiling to the ears and in shirtsleeves. He kissed Quinn on both cheeks, then got close to Rachel and hugged her.

"I hope you like ratatouille," he said without losing his good mood. "And beef. Mercedes has bought some meat earlier."

The draft of the menu made Rachel's mouth water. It had been so long since Quinn and she hadn't had a whole meal, with starter, hors-d'œuvre and dessert. Perhaps that the end of the nazi's reign upon Paris would allow the ending of the food restrictions.

Her head coming out of the kitchen, Mercedes greeted them before going back to her business, while not allowing Quinn to come in. Rachel giggled upon seeing the blonde's vexed look.

"No offense, but it is true that you're not the best of cooks."

Quinn pouted, but soon forgot her it when Rachel came to kiss her cheek.

They were the only guests whom had already arrived, but they didn't had to wait much for the door to open again, and Brittany made her entrance in the foyer.

After half an hour, the living-room was swarming with heterogeneous voices and happy laughs between the five friends, who were savoring the victory of the Allies upon a great part of France and Italia, and the withdrawal and the flight of the nazis toward remote horizons. Sam had put a disc on the turn table, broadcasting songs of Édith Piaf and Joséphine Baker, making the apartment more welcoming than it already was.

Brittany, as usual, was bringing a new breath in the apartment, a simple and carefree happiness which was, now that the war was almost totally over, even more appreciated, reinvigorating their soul and their mind, wounded and atrophied for years.

At about eight thirty, Mercedes brought the first meal, and as everybody was taking their place around the table, somebody knocked on the door.

"Right on time," the lady of the house breathed out while walking toward the entrance.

The person burst in the living room and it didn't seem to surprise anybody, except Rachel, who frowned because she couldn't recognize the tall blonde woman who was standing by the door. She had a steady look which was making her slightly uneasy.

Her companions all stood up to greet the new guest, who hugged every one of them, and kept Quinn a bit longer against her. It was at this moment that Rachel thought of Sue Sylvester, this woman who had helped Quinn and owned some kind of a black market, a trade hidden to the eyes of the average citizens, and which she was running despite the ban and the risks.

She was the woman who had taken Quinn and her sister in when they had lost their parents.

She was also the woman who had given her a piece of bread, through the blonde.

She felt herself blushing and, after she had stood up, she came closer to the tall woman with short hair, fine and marked features, and carefully ironed clothes.

The small brunette didn't know how to react once she was facing her. She suddenly felt Quinn's hand on the small of her back, reminding her that she shouldn't be afraid of a woman like Sue.

Yet, her blue, unblinking eyes were freezing her.

"Rachel ? This is Sue, Sue Sylvester. She's one of my most dear friends."

Quinn's soft voice had given her back a bit of confidence, and Rachel automatically introduced herself, without daring to break the visual link between them. Sue watched her for a moment, but her face wasn't displaying any emotion, which wasn't to Rachel's liking. She was beginning to wonder if she really wanted to meet this woman. Then, finally, she spoke, and her tone wasn't abrupt or brusque at all, like she thought it would be, but it still made her shiver.

"You are the young Jew who is living with Quinn, right ?"

Rachel swallowed soundlessly. "Yes, madame."

She felt a bit ridiculous, as if she was back into school, in front of the blackboard, and that she had forgotten an important point in her answer.

But Sue had probably finished embarrassing her, because she suddenly changed her attitude, and she smiled at Rachel for the first time.

"You can call me Sue," she said softly.

In her turn, the brunette smiled.

It had been pretty hard to put six people around the table of an apartment destined for two people, but after ten minutes, everybody found their place. Quinn had slipped at Rachel's right, so she could hold her hand under the table when she felt like it. Rachel smiled at her, and their four neighbors were witness of this act they thought discreet.

They thought they were being cautious, and they probably were, but they couldn't hide their smiles and their flushed skin when one of them was looking at the other, or the way they were looking for the other, even though they were in the same room. They couldn't conceal their linked hands either, behind their back, when they had knocked at Sam and Mercedes' earlier. The young man hadn't said a thing, preferring to hold back his grin which had threatened to break his jaw.

A real feast was waiting for them. The meat, so rare in wartime, had delighted their taste buds, having forgotten the taste of medium rare beef. To end dinner on a high note, Sue had pulled out of nowhere a bottle of champagne, a drink which had deserted the food stores for so long.

Brittany proposed a toast to freedom, to love and to tomorrows, and everybody clicked glasses full of a sparkling golden liquid.

At about midnight, Rachel's eyelids were beginning to close by themselves, and her head was leaning on Quinn's shoulder. After she had seen Rachel muffle a yawn and rubbing her eyes, the latter decided that it was time for them to go back home.

Exhausted, the two young women took their leave of their hosts and friends, promising to visit them soon while hugging them. When Sue's turn came (the tall woman had stayed slightly in the background, as usual), she first hugged Quinn, then, to everybody's astonishment, did the same with Rachel.

The brunette was a bit surprised, but hugged her back, glad to know that Sue seemed to like her.

The words that she then slipped in her ear added to her amazement.

"Take care of Quinn."

Rachel nodded her head against her dress, promising her to look after her protégé, and she wasn't certain she had caught a glimpse of a tear shining at the corner of Sue's cheek when she stepped back. She quickly hid her emotion by smiling in a confident way, and she squeezed her shoulder before wishing her good night.

Quinn and Rachel got home tired, happy and replete, overwhelmed by joy. It wasn't long before the two women swapped their outfit for their pajamas, more comfortable and lighter, adapted to the warmth of the summer which invaded and occupied the homes for a few days.

It didn't upset the small brunette; she had lived enough outside to be able to say for sure that she preferred the stifling humidity of August over harsh and tough winter of Europe, both dry and humid, terrible to face.

When she went to bed that night, she felt like she had finally found her place in this world, in this town in which she had never planned to stay more than one or two days, this city once surrounded by Nazis and repression, packed with collaborators without scruples. She had been wrong. She had found there more than just a place to live in; she had friends who cared about her and invited her to share a dinner, and a girlfriend who only wanted her to be happy, who loved her, and most of all, was letting herself be loved by her. It was the most important.

Despite the heat, Rachel slipped an arm around Quinn's waist as soon as she got under the sheet, drawing her toward her cotton-wrapped body. She buried her face in her blonde hair, breathing her unique, soothing scent.

She wouldn't trade her place for anything in the world.

* * *

 _And in my dreams I was a child_  
 _Flowers in my mouth and in my eyes_  
 _And I was floating through the colors of a sky_  
 _Up to the stars and angels._

 _— Sister Rosetta Tharpe._

* * *

 _* Ordinance of 9 August 1944 relating to Republican Legality on Continental Territory._


	20. Chapter 20

**My heart goes to Belgium and Bruxelles. I love you, dear country.**

 **Finally, the last chapter. I hope you enjoyed this story, it holds a very special place in my heart. I'm a bit sad and disappointed, I guess, that there were so many people following the story and who put it in their favorites, but so little reviews. I considered not finishing it because of that ; but, well, I couldn't. I had to finish it, if only for the two or three people who have left reviews on every single chapter or so. I'd like to thank them, and I would also like to thank my beta Hazel006, who helped me through this translation. I don't know if I ever will post anything again in English, because obviously some people read me but don't leave review, and unfortunately it makes me a bit uneasy, I guess.**

 **Anyway, it has been a long journey, and now it is over. Take care, and enjoy !**

* * *

In the following weeks, the city of Paris slowly returned to normal, took back the course of time which had been altered those last five years. The public services didn't know any more inconvenience, no strike had disrupted the public transportation, and the Provisional Government, lead by the general de Gaulle, was setting up little by little new measures to rule France.

The country wasn't totally free, actually; some departments were still in the hands of the Nazis, but every day, we could hear announce the liberation of one of them at the radio, either won by the Allies, either because the German Army has left, giving up whole towns to try and take refuge somewhere else.

But the state of mind had changed. It was felt everywhere, at every corner of Europe, which had finally woken up and rose from ashes after an almost complete Nazi and fascist domination.

We believed in the end of the war. Some people even dared think about an honest, lasting peace, the collapse of the Nazi regime, the rallying of the people whom could forgive this unpleasant interlude.

Yet, it was more than just an interlude. It had been more than half of a decade filled with unspeakable horrors, blood, persecutions.

The first signs that the French capital had retrieved a bit of its past prosperity didn't take that long to show themselves. The shopping avenues were, once more, constantly stamped and paced up and down, the shops were getting more and more visits every day. Now, when Quinn or Rachel were craning their head to see out the window or when they went outside, they were surprised by the number of passersby on the small streets of the once deserted district. Quinn had never seen it so crowded, not even when she had just settled in, three years before the beginning of the war.

What changed almost instantly, and it didn't surprise much the two young women, was their daily life. Every day, they were going outside. Ten minutes, only to stretch their legs, or one hour spent wandering in the shade of a tree, it didn't really matter; the most important was to be able to enjoy this freedom which they had been deprived of for too long.

Now that they knew what their life could be, deprived of the simple fact of being able to walk on the paved stones of the city, they wanted to take advantage of it wholeheartedly. Rachel had lost too much time shut in, and she wouldn't do it again. Nothing in the world would make her change her mind.

Those strolls had the gift to stick an indelible grin on the small dark-haired girl face. She had the right to roam aimlessly and without obligation in the city streets, without running the risk to be arrested or put in jail at every step; and because there was Quinn by her side, every second of those appreciated moments was even more enjoyed.

Quinn had first introduced her to the surroundings of the building, the stores around it, every nook and cranny worth the trip, and in only a few weeks, Rachel could pride herself on knowing the quarter like the back of her hand.

She felt lucky to live in a part of Paris so quiet and historical, just nearby its most famous basilica, cafe theaters and cabarets known throughout the world.

Perhaps those walks had made her understand that she would never come back home to her parents. The only chance that they were still alive was ridiculous, if not non-existent. Rachel had accepted this fact years ago, she had prepared herself to the eventuality that she would never see her two fathers ever again, or even see the house where she had spent the most of her childhood again (it had probably been burnt, like every house which had sheltered Jewish people).

She would never come home — except that her home, it was here. It was Paris. It was Montmartre.

It was Quinn.

She couldn't think about leaving her, even though she had first tried to flee when the blonde had taken her in. It would never happen again. So many things had changed since then.

If she trusted her intuition, Quinn didn't wish her leaving either. It wasn't even an option; never would Rachel want to, or could leave Quinn. When so many threats and doubts were hovering over their heads, Quinn hadn't abandoned her, so why would she do it now, on the eve of a lasting, concrete armistice, enjoying a new freedom ?

Fortunately, she wasn't thinking about living a life away from the blonde anymore. She had no reason to: the two women were happy, more than ever, and they weren't willing to change their daily life, which was coming more true every day.

At the beginning of autumn, Quinn brought Rachel in ready-to-wear fashion stores. After every shop, they came out with a dress or two on their arm, a shirt and a pair of shoes that Rachel liked. Sometimes she opened wide eyes upon seeing the price tags, but Quinn would reassure her with a smile, and after a few hours, the small Jew's clothes were taking almost as much room as the blonde's in the closet of the bedroom.

There wasn't only clothing stores that had been visited by Rachel's amazed eyes. Quinn had taken her to every place in the district worth her attention or her visit, as short as it was, and she had lead her through cafe theaters, theaters, churches and monuments, book shops, delicatessens, record shops and cinemas.

Even though they only went inside for their viewing pleasure and not to buy something or to see a play, visiting those places, almost all of them historical, typical of Rachel's idea of Paris, was giving her a great joy.

She really felt like she was finding her place in this town.

Rachel was beginning to feel like she was living a real life. With the new laws voted in by the GPRF, now established two steps away and not in North Africa anymore, she felt as legitimate as any Parisian who was living here for generations. She had the same rights, the same duties, and nothing could have make her happier.

But the only thing that could have allowed Rachel to truly feel like she belonged here and that she had missed for a long time, Sue Sylvester brought her.

As usual, the tall woman hadn't informed them of her arrival, one evening of October. She hugged Quinn warmly, then Rachel, as if they had been friends for years.

After some trite phrases, Quinn proposed to make some tea, and so the little brown-haired woman was alone with Sue, sitting beside her on the couch of the living room.

The presence of the blonde wasn't making her uncomfortable anymore, but she had a weird knot in her stomach every time she met her gaze. She hadn't had the occasion to see her often since this dinner in August, and yet those short glimpses reassured her in the idea she had of Sue; this singular woman appeared like someone exceptionally reliable and honest, and who was, moreover, very friendly and smiling once one began to know her. Like an older Quinn, in a way.

Despite this, Rachel couldn't prevent her stomach from tying in knots whenever she was in her company.

She was glad not to be her enemy.

Sue offered her an enigmatic grin while she leaned back in her chair.

"I have a present for you, my dear."

The young Jew was a bit more at ease upon hearing the soft voice of the tall woman, and she opened two intrigued eyes on her.

"A gift ? Which kind of gift ?"

"The kind which you will like, I'm sure of it," Sue assured.

She couldn't ask more, because Quinn was coming back with a tray loaded with a teapot and three cups. Each of them took their drink, sipped at it to warm up their entrails, before the conversation started again cheerfully between the three women.

Finally, as Rachel was beginning to lose her patience, Sue slipped her hand into the pocket of her jacket, took from it a packet the size of a book, tied with a string, and she put in on the coffee table.

"What is it ?" Quinn asked.

"Open it and you will see," Sue said. "It's for you and your girlfriend."

Sue winked to the small brunette, who blushed while getting closer to Quinn. The latter one untied the knot, removing the white paper to reveal its contents. Inside was a box, not much bigger than an envelope, that she opened right away.

When she saw what was inside it, Rachel had a gasp of stupor, and looked up at Sue to be sure that she wasn't imagining what she was seeing. Quinn, for herself, was speechless.

Inside the box were a small notebook, of a worn out orange, on which the words _République Française_ were spread out and its symbol, surrounded with four small flags. Under it, with the same font, the word _Passeport_ , followed by a serial number, and her first name and name. Rachel Sarfati.

She couldn't believe her eyes. Rachel reached out to touch the paper, carefully, as if it was going to fall apart under her touch. She took it between her fingers, and discovered another document under the passport. She could have guessed what it was; an identity card, also sporting her name, with her address and her description. The card was stamped by the police superintendent of the eighteenth arrondissement. The only things missing, for the document to be complete, were her date of birth, her photo and her signature.

She didn't wonder how could Sue have got her fingerprints.

Rachel felt the tears coming. She looked at Quinn, who seemed to be in the same state that she was, then Sue, smiling in a casual way.

"H-How... " Rachel stuttered.

"A child's play," Sue said softly. "It's not much. I hope that you like it."

"Of course I like it ! But why... You had no obligation to do so much for me, and I could never thank you enough for that."

The tall woman grinned, shrugged her shoulder. After a moment, when Quinn and Rachel had collected themselves, she added :

"I wasn't compelled to do it, but I wanted to. You deserve to be completely free, and I told myself that I could spare you weeks of useless paperwork, mostly because you had no identity papers anymore. And I knew that it would please you as much as it would please Quinn (the young woman looked up at this instant, her eyes moist, giving a slight smile that she hoped was confident). I would have liked to offer it to you sooner, to take a weight off your shoulders if you ever came to being controlled, but..."

Sue didn't finish her sentence, and she shrugged again. Then, to her surprise, she was caught in a powerful embrace which almost made her fall.

Rachel murmured a thank you terribly frank, as respectful and grateful as if she had just saved her life.

"You're welcome," Sue whispered. "Quinn and you... you deserve to be happy."

* * *

The days went by very fast. It was now a year and three months since the two women were living together. They felt like they had just begun cohabiting and, ironically, they felt like they had lived through so many events that they could fill an entire life.

There were, obviously, some advantages to having spent the majority, if not the whole of her free time with one person for more than a year. Rachel knew Quinn's favorite meals (easier to cook now that the town wasn't under food restrictions anymore), knew that she liked to lounge in bed as long as she could and that she liked to stay up as late as possible, and that she didn't like going out, even if it was for a simple errand, if Rachel wasn't coming with her.

She had learned a lot of small things, all of them insignificant, which were only making Quinn more special to her, and this by having shared a roof with her.

Sometimes, just before they went to bed, Quinn would take a book from her crammed bookcase before settling against the headboard of the bed. Rachel would join her, curling up between her alabaster arms and resting her head between her neck and her shoulder. A minute later, Quinn would begin to read out loud.

The young Parisian's voice was always filling Rachel with wonder, soothing her with her smooth, tender notes.

It strongly looked like the thought she had of heaven; a place out of time and space, unreal, infinite, in which nobody could disturb their quietude. A place where they could be themselves, safe.

Usually, Quinn would get a poetry collection, and read a dozen of poems before Rachel would fall asleep, caught by the gracious tones and the slow caresses of the blonde on her skin.

Some authors had Quinn's preference, mainly English or Americans, and she would recite the translation of their poems only if Rachel wanted her to. Walt Whitman had resonated between the four walls of their bedroom, as well as Emily Brontë, Lord Byron, Alfred Tennyson. E.E. Cummings' poems were coming back more often than the others; Rachel couldn't exactly explain why. Perhaps because she liked the barely used leather binding, handled with great care, or the way Quinn would look at her when she told her verses that she didn't understand.

She didn't know any word of English, but didn't need it to understand the meaning of the words that Quinn murmured in her ear; her intonation was enough to share the intention and communicate the power of the words.

When Rachel finally had the chance to lay her eyes on the translation of the poems in French, she almost cried.

She didn't know what she had done to deserve a woman like Quinn.

Sometimes, the little brunette was telling herself that fate, or God, or whatever it was that had reunited them, had done well for once.

One of their sessions of nocturnal reading was suddenly interrupted one night of November. The night would fall soon, so it wasn't impossible that it was Sue or Mercedes or another of their friends knocking at their door. Quinn got up, put her book down on the duvet and went to open while Rachel was leafing through the pages.

A cry pulled her out of some John Keats' verses, which made her jump out of bed to rush into the living room. In the foyer, the dark-haired woman couldn't believe her eyes.

On the doorstep was Quinn, in a jumble of arms and exclamations, squeezing against her a woman with blonde hair whom Rachel couldn't see. She first thought of Brittany, but dismissed this possibility; her girlfriend wouldn't have put herself in this state if if was their neighbor at their door.

The two entangled women pulled apart, and Rachel could finally catch sight of the stranger's face.

A face which looked like Quinn's.

Her features were more pronounced, sharper, with a thinner mouth, eyes different than Quinn's, with green and hazelnut and gold. A less pale complexion. But she had the same blonde hair, neither too short nor too long, with strands of hair pinned down under a hat. Except for those few nuances, the young woman was the spitting image of Quinn.

At her feet, there was a backpack full to the brim, overflowing with clothes and papers. This sole hint should have set her on the right path.

At the moment when Rachel made the connection and put a name on this familiar face, Quinn seemed to remember her presence and her good manners, and she held out her hand with emotion.

"Rachel..."

Her voice had thickened under a coat of transport, turmoil and enthusiasm, and her eyes were shining with held back tears. Rachel got closer, caught the hand of the blonde while keeping on watching the other girl.

"Rachel, I'd like to present you my sister. Frannie. Frannie, this is Rachel."

Half an hour later, after some more tears from the two sisters and numerous embraces, the three women found themselves sitting around the living room table, with tea, coffee and some biscuits before them.

Frannie and Quinn couldn't stop themselves from grinning, from grazing their shoulders to make sure of their presence, or to exclaim that they couldn't believe it, that they were finally meeting again after so many years.

Long conversations went by, and the eldest Fabray was exactly how Rachel had imagined her: tall, confident, not afraid to say what was on her mind, teasing her sister whenever she had the occasion. Her outfit had also intrigued her. Almost none of the other women meandering in town wore such a garb, made of canvas pants, big walking shoes, a cotton shirt under a thicker jacket, in addition to her felt hat which she had hung on the coat rack.

She seemed as sure of herself and extrovert as her outfit. Rachel was already admiring her for that. As courteous as Quinn, she had greeted her with a smile without asking anything about her situation, or which kind of relationship she had with her sister.

The little brunette knew all of a sudden which was the greatest difference between the two blondes. Frannie was talkative. She was rambling and describing the last months of her life, spent on the African continent, with a lot of details, and was stopping only for an instant every fifteen minutes to catch her breath.

According to what she said, she had just arrived in Paris by train, this afternoon, and couldn't have resisted the temptation to visit some of her acquaintances — including Sue Sylvester — before coming here, in what had once been her own apartment.

Her stories of battles, hideouts, sabotages of railways and radios were fascinating, and Frannie was telling them with so much passion and almost joy that she left out any hint of sadness in her tales. Quinn was often interrupting her to ask questions about her everyday life, or to clarify a specific point, or simply to ask her to keep going. They had lost too much time apart from each other during those years.

When, a little before midnight, the discussion showed no sign of slowing down, Rachel, who was beginning to feel the tiredness catching her, stood up, carried the dishes into the kitchen before coming back to apologize to their guest.

"I'm going to bed," she said, smiling softly, her eyelids almost closing. "Frannie, will you sleep here ?"

Frannie looked at Rachel, then Quinn, before shrugging.

"As you wish," she replied. "I can take a room at the hotel, or elsewhere, if there's not enough room."

"No way," Quinn said. "You will stay here. Do you wanna take the bed ? Rachel and I, we can manage ourselves in the living room."

"There's no need for that. I'll take this good old couch."

"This time, you really came back, right ?" Quinn asked, frowning slightly.

"Yes."

"No more suicide missions on the other side of the world, even if there is another war, promise ?"

"Promise, Quinn."

The younger one then smiled, put her hand on Frannie's. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Quinn."

* * *

The night passed quietly. Rachel wasn't sure that Quinn had gone to bed this night, because the following day she found her at the same place, her face in her hand, listening to the fanciful yet real stories of her sister.

The exiguity of the apartment seemed to increase during the night, and Rachel thought that it would soon become complicated to put three people under this roof. Yet, it didn't upset her. It was better to have a small covered, protected space than nothing at all, she understood it better than anyone. Everything was better than this cellar full of rats and humidity, or those freight cars where rain and wind were seeping in.

Quinn told her to sit down beside her, greeted her with an almost bashful smile, squeezing her thin fingers. Frannie grinned widely, feeling as refreshed as if she had slept for twelve hours.

They didn't see the time passing; they had so much to talk about. Rachel wasn't excluded of the discussion, despite the fact that she didn't know Frannie and that the latter still didn't know how she was related to Quinn. But looking at the ease with which they fell into great conversations, and the way they had to watch each other, a bit curious but not hostile in the least, one could have thought they were two old friends rediscovering each other after years spent abroad.

Frannie hadn't said how much time she thought she would be staying here, but since the question hadn't been broached yet, nobody was seeing any harm if she was prolonging her stay in her former home.

The older girl was spending her nights on the couch. She had assured the two others that she wouldn't want to trouble what was already settled, and that the sofa was more comfortable that any of the beds she had slept in those last years.

One evening, two days after her arrival, Frannie went out to visit her former neighbors. Sam and Mercedes were literally ecstatic when they saw her, and they drew out their reunion until late into the night.

The young blonde came back into the apartment trying to soften her footsteps, slipped into the bathroom, then got out to go to sleep when a weak noise interrupted her gesture.

She stopped, tried to hold her breath for an instant, when the sound started again. It made Frannie think about a silent giggle.

She lied down on the couch, pricked up her ears, listening for sounds coming from the bedroom.

There had been a muffled laugh, followed by a few hushed words, barely perceptible through the closed door. Frannie frowned. Then another noise broke the quietness of the apartment, on which it was impossible to be mistaken.

The soft sound, almost inaudible, of two pairs of lips meeting.

Then another light laugh.

Frannie hadn't even noticed that she had stopped breathing, as if she could, by filling up her lungs, inform the two occupants of the bedroom of her presence.

So Rachel wasn't a stranger, and not only a roommate. She and Quinn had, if she believed her ears, a relationship beyond the friendly stage. She should have suspected it, actually. The way these two girls were looking at and touching each other could have blinded her with happiness. Also, Quinn wasn't the kind of person to invite anyone in her home. She probably had her reasons. The reasons of her heart, Frannie thought.

She believed she heard the sound of another kiss, and she smiled in the darkness.

Quinn had probably, against all odds and against the logic, found happiness in the toughest moment, when the war was raging all around her.

Frannie decided not to confront her sister with what she had just learned before at least a few days, and preferably without Rachel. She secretly hoped that Quinn was strong enough to admit it by herself, because if she hadn't talked about it sooner, it was maybe because she didn't have the courage to do so.

The moment came at the end of the week, when Rachel said that she was going to run some errands. Frannie pretended to be absorbed by her reading, pretending not to hear the sweet words they were exchanging in their ears, and not to notice the kiss Quinn had laid on Rachel's cheek.

If she ever had had doubts, they had now faded away.

When Quinn came back into the living room, Frannie called her.

They settled on the couch, Quinn not ceasing to grin, Frannie asking herself if she was the only one aware of their relation.

"I was wondering," the taller woman began, "since when does Rachel live here ?"

As soon as her name was mentioned, Quinn's smile widened, and Frannie was almost sure that she could see her cheeks reddening. Quinn shrugged, replied that she had moved in a bit more than a year ago.

"She's Jewish, you know. She had no papers, no place to go, so I told her that she could stay with me while things were still hard outside. And then, fifteen months later, she still lives here."

Frannie didn't know well Rachel's story, but she knew it was complex. Difficult, even. She had endured a lot, suffered pressures from everywhere. The subject had only been broached one time, and soon dropped.

"She's a nice girl," Frannie started again. "She seems good for you."

"For me ? What do you mean ?"

"Quinn... you know what I'm talking about."

Quinn looked like she was trying to understand. Then she hung her head, blushed some more, before shrugging her shoulders. She didn't make a single move for a minute, before looking up, laying her eyes on her sister's lighter ones.

"You're not mad ?"

"Why would I be ?" Frannie questioned while furrowing her brow. "I told you, Rachel is a sweet girl, she is adorable."

A pause, then : "Does she make you happy ?"

Quinn couldn't hold back a smile, more eloquent than any of the verbal answers she could have given. The taller girl looked like she was satisfied, then she got closer to put an arm around her shoulders.

"I am happy for you, then," Frannie went on. "Really. You deserve to be happy, and if it's this girl that puts you in this state, I have nothing to add. You're big enough to live your life the way you want to."

"How did you know ?" Quinn asked suddenly. "Did Rachel tell you ?"

"Let's just say that you're not very discreet," she joked. "Your smile isn't either, if I may. But, more seriously, I think that it's been so long since I saw you laugh that much, and so appeased, since mom and dad. I just thought that this little brunette was involved."

Quinn nodded sadly. It was true that when their parents went missing, she had been inconsolable. Frannie has even wondered if she would ever find back her joy of living.

Now she did.

Quinn had also probably suffered a lack of attention from her parents — no because they were bad or careless, but because they hadn't been home often. Frannie had assumed this role more than once when they were absent.

And, if she was totally honest with herself, she thought that their parents hadn't given all the care to her little sister. They loved her, of course, they had treated her like a princess, but something was missing. Or it was Frannie that has had something more. Perhaps the fact that she had been favored (unconsciously or not) was linked with what Quinn had become after their abduction.

A young woman who, if not sad, hadn't been happy, had become withdrawn, having no one on which she could count.

Of course, Frannie had been there, only for a short period of time, before leaving when the war had been declared.

To this day, she still blamed herself for making Quinn endure more solitude than ever. But she has come back, and Quinn wasn't holding it against her, and she would do anything to make up for lost time.

"I just want you to do one thing for me," Frannie said after a beat.

"What is it ?"

She smirked, and Quinn feared the worst for a few irrational seconds.

"Introduce me to her, properly. As your girlfriend, and not a simple roommate. You owe me that."

Two hours later, after having put the groceries that Rachel had bought away, Quinn came close to her, entangled their fingers with a soothing touch, before turning toward Frannie and saying, with a clear, full of emotion voice : "Rachel, you already know my sister, Frannie. Frannie, here is Rachel. She's my girlfriend," she finished upon feeling the brunette squeezing her hand.

Frannie grinned, before shouting an "It's about time !" which echoed in the room. She moved forward to embrace the two women, kissing their cheeks in turn. Rachel laughed, then leaned toward Quinn's ear, murmuring that she was proud of her.

Quinn felt, too, proud of herself.

* * *

The cohabitation between Frannie, Quinn and Rachel began to show its limits around January.

The apartment, ridiculously small, with its one bedroom and its tiny bathroom, definitely wasn't made for three people. One, certainly, and maybe even two, but not more.

Quinn was thinking about a solution for some time, which would be fitting for everyone, and got an idea while she was roaming the streets, back from Sue's. She told Frannie about it, who was skeptical at first, then convinced upon hearing her arguments — but she didn't tell Rachel.

Making the surprise would be best. She only hoped that it will be welcomed with joy.

The young blonde also had another idea in mind, which was going round in circles between her temples for much longer, but she hadn't done a thing to concretize it yet.

This month, she had gone around the district, visiting some shops until she found what she was looking for, which she then put in a safe place where Rachel wouldn't go (at least, she thought so).

Frannie, as for herself, walked across the town searching for odd jobs, while waiting to be hired by someone, which was finally giving a little more solitude and privacy to the two lovers. They had woken up one morning, upon hearing the front door slamming, and they had took advantage of it right away.

The sun was already high when Quinn sighed with satisfaction while resting her head on Rachel's abdomen, tangling her legs with hers.

"You are insatiable," she muttered.

Rachel laughed, slid her fingers into Quinn's thin hair, whom also smiled and kissed the skin of her belly.

"I didn't hear you complaining."

The blonde let out an unintelligible sound before raising her head. She looked at the small Jew, observed her features which she knew by heart, the sheet which had slipped from her shoulder, her chest rising slowly and regularly. Rachel was looking at her with the same adoration in her eyes as eight months ago. Their relationship had only increased in intensity since, and their feelings hadn't changed; they only got bigger over time.

Quinn had been wrong to think that Rachel would get tired of her or Paris. She was glad to have been mistaken.

Rachel sighed upon feeling her lover's fingers brushing her bare thighs.

"Is there something wrong ?" Quinn asked.

"I was thinking. Believe me, I really like Frannie, but if she wasn't always here, we could..."

Rachel made a slight gesture between them with her hand to show her thinking.

Quinn understood what she meant. And it was at this moment she realized that it was time to go through with her idea, as quickly as possible. It was the best thing to do.

But Rachel's pout was soon replaced by a smirk when she felt Quinn's lips near her ear, whispering in a smooth voice: "Frannie isn't back yet."

* * *

Quinn asked Rachel if she wanted to go with her, not even a month later, into a new shop that had just opened on the other side of the butte Montmartre.

Frannie winked at them when they got out of the apartment, to Rachel's confusion.

The Parisian girl led her through little steep streets bypassing the butte, where they didn't see more than a handful of passersby on this winter afternoon. It was milder than last month, when the temperatures has been well below zero, then the snow had took over. There was no more trace of the frost that Paris had suffered, and it was now ten degrees Celsius. It wasn't really hard for the two women, they had seen worse.

Rachel didn't know this part of the quarter, and she frowned when she realized that they got closer to Clignancourt. However, she kept quiet, let Quinn led her again toward the Sacré-Cœur now, until they stopped before an old building in Lamarck street, just in front of the metro entrance encircled by two large stairs.

Except for a café and a restaurant, no store was in sight.

"Is it here ?"

Quinn nodded, simply smiling. Then, grabbing Rachel's hand, she made her come into the building. The brunette only noticed now the keys that Quinn had in her hand, hanging at her finger.

Puzzled, she let herself be guided, following the blonde and climbing four staircases after her, and she finally stopped, slightly panting, before a door which was identical to the others.

"We're there," Quinn said after opening the door with the key.

Rachel already suspected that there would be an apartment behind the wall. She thought that it would be inhabited, perhaps by someone Quinn knew, or that it would be the den of another Sue Sylvester, but she was proved wrong.

The room into which she entered was empty. Completely empty, and also very big. It was undoubtedly twice the size of their living room.

Quinn came near her after having closed the door, took her hand once more and they looked around.

Rachel noticed that only the kitchen was furnished, and that the immaculate white of the walls and the ceiling added to the impression of largeness emerging from the place. The numerous windows were letting the light of the evening in, making great shadows on the parquet.

She still didn't understand what they were doing in here, and asked her companion the question.

"You know that Frannie is planning to stay in Paris," she said with a shy air, carrying on when Rachel nodded her head. "Well, since she still haven't found an apartment, I started looking for one, with some help from Sue. And I found this one."

The small Jewish woman looked around her, before watching Quinn again.

"Isn't it a little too big for a single person ?"

"It's not for her, Rachel. It's for us."

The surprise silenced her. She blinked when the blonde squeezed her hand in hers and tangled their fingers together.

"Don't be mad," Quinn mumbled, "because I didn't want to tell you about it before. I thought that it would please you, to finally have our own place, truly this time, and bigger than the other apartment. It could mark the beginning of our life together. Moreover, it's not very far away. Ten minutes on foot, or one metro station."

When Rachel wasn't saying a thing, she began to blush before uttering excuses : "But perhaps I shouldn't have, not before asking you... If you don't like it, I can still give it back."

"No, of course not," Rachel exclaimed. "It's... I don't know what to say. I would have never imagined that you would want to do so much. I assure you that it makes me happy, it's just... incredible."

She marked her words with a hard kiss on Quinn's lips, which lasted long enough for the two women to forget where they were for an instant.

"Quinn Fabray, you really are full of surprises," she murmured against her mouth.

The latter one grinned. "If you allow me, I would like to surprise you one more time, right now."

Rachel nodded before stealing her another kiss, then she pulled away smiling.

Quinn was still hesitant, but her doubts faded away before Rachel's loving face.

Anyway, she had no doubts anymore since she had seen Mercedes, this morning, whom had smiled kindly to her, hugged her for a while, and whispered that she was proud of her.

Or since she had went to Sam, whom had simply embraced her and told her he was jealous of the couple she formed with Rachel.

Or since she has gone to find Brittany, the week before, to ask for her opinion, and the latter had answered that she making the best decision. She had then joked around, telling her that it had dragged on too long.

Frannie, as for herself, had teased her, before giving her all her approbation.

Sue had finished convincing her by telling her that she deserved happiness, and that such a decision would only bring them good, to her and to Rachel. Sue had held her tight to kiss her, whispering congratulations and best wishes in her ear.

Rachel's smile froze and changed into a silent amazement when she saw the blonde getting down on one knee while keeping one of her hands into hers.

"Rachel," she began, blushing and grinning, tightening her hold on her fingers, "you know that I love you, and you make me infinitely happy by loving me back. I know that our relationship isn't the most common, and that we probably faced more ordeals than most of people, and it strengthens my idea that we're meant to be together. I know that we will stay together for a long time to come, and in that case, couples are getting married. We can't get married, but we can swear to live our lives together, until death do us apart, as we say it, and even after. I don't care about what the others will think of us, and that's why I'm asking you, Rachel Sarfati... Do you want to live with me for the rest of your life, and, in a way, become my wife ?"

Rachel stifled a cry, then she threw herself on Quinn, knocking her down, all the while sobbing against her shoulder a determined, filled of emotion "yes". She gripped the fabric of her jacket with her hands, before moving back to look at Quinn, needing the proof that all of this had just happened, that her proposal was real.

The look of deep beatitude on Quinn's face told her that she hadn't just dreamed it.

She kissed her deeply, several times, then she stepped back laughing nervously, joyfully, while a few tears where flowing on her cheeks. She reached out to help Quinn stand up, and it was at this moment that Rachel noticed that she was holding between her fingers a small box with two silver wedding rings in it.

They exchanged them between tears, laughs and kisses, which lasted until they were breathless.

Nobody could have predicted such a future five years ago, but they wouldn't want to change it for anything in the world.

They had survived through thousands of horrors for so long, they had now the right to want to taste happiness, until they got tired of it.

But they already knew that they would never get tired of this feeling of serenity, of safety surrounding them whenever they were close to each other.

They had their whole life ahead of them to love each other, and they every much hoped to make the most of it, forever.

* * *

 _Everything that has existed, lingers in the Eternity._

 _— Agatha Christie._


End file.
